1915
by RobinRocks
Summary: Sequel to '1912'. USUK. Arthur extends a diplomatic invitation to Alfred travel to Britain on the RMS Lusitania during WWI; but Alfred, still haunted by the sinking of the Titanic, has qualms about the ship, the warzone she'll be passing through and Arthur's motives. Is it really safer than 1912 when Imperial Germany has sworn to sink all shipping suspected of carrying weapons?
1. Friday April 30th, 1915

Soooooo... idk if anyone remembers _1912_, I wrote it last year to coincide day-to-day with the sinking of the _RMS Titanic _on the one hundredth anniversary. It seemed to go down pretty well and I thought the universe was an interesting one - a canon take on the event rather than a retelling of James Cameron's _Titanic _- so I've been thinking about revisiting it for a while with this: _1915_, chronicling the (controversial) sinking of the _RMS Lusitania _in 1915 by a German U-boat, one of the catalysts which led to the USA's involvement in WWI. It's nowhere near as famous or well-documented/explored as the _Titanic'_s sinking so the research as been hard-going in places and also I'm aware that many people just don't find the _Lusitania _as interesting as the _Titanic_? BUT I hope some people will be interested in revisting the _1912 _universe with me all the same? :3

This will be undertaken in a similar fashion to _1912_, hopefully with day-by-day updates on the corresponding date (or maybe a little less, it depends on how much space I need for the story, given that _Lusitania _was afloat for longer than _Titanic_...)

So... uhh, that's pretty much it, I suppose. Let's begin.

1915

Friday 30th April, 1915

Given the circumstances, Alfred was pretty sure he could let it slide: Arthur showing up more or less unannounced, that is. It wasn't like him, really - even when 1775 had made enemies of them, he'd still been more-or-less by the book - but he had come to learn, from Arthur's mud-stained letters, that this war was...

...well, different. In all the wrong ways.

Alfred wasn't really properly dressed, no jacket, collar unbuttoned, still knotting his tie as he scrambled down the grand staircase of New York's glorious Waldorf-Astoria; it was early, thankfully, with vey few other guests up and about to glare at him as he took the steps two and three at a time. He'd still been asleep when the message had come that Arthur was waiting for him in the lobby; and had fumbled to dress as quickly as possible so as not to keep him waiting (this he had as ammunition lest Arthur bewail the fact that he hadn't shaved or combed his hair - it was only half past seven in the morning, after all, and he'd given no warning).

He padded into the Park Avenue lobby, tucking his grey silk tie in as he looked about for Arthur, whom he was expecting bag and baggage, for he seemed incapable of travelling light; and in his best suit, too, since he liked to be well-dressed for travelling as opposed to comfortable.

What he found instead, slumped in one of the plush chairs in the corner of the lobby, was Arthur, clearly exhausted, with no worldly belongings with him at all; and dressed in his white Royal Navy uniform, cap on the table in front of him where usually he'd have a drink and an ashtray. He didn't notice Alfred approach him, only looking up when Alfred sank into the seat opposite.

"Good morning," Alfred said cheerfully, beaming at him.

"A-ah." Arthur straightened with the suddeness of a startled cat. "Good morning, Alfred. I apologise, I was just, ah..." He trailed off, stifling a yawn, before shaking his head. "Sorry, I was..."

"You look tired," Alfred said candidly; obvious, understatement, but he felt that it needed to be said or Arthur wouldn't admit to it.

"I am," Arthur agreed gratefully. "I had the night watch. I know it's not likely we'll run into anything in American waters but protocol, you know how it is..."

"Uh huh." Alfred reached across and took Arthur's hand, squeezing it. "It's good to see you. It's... uh, been a while, huh?"

"Last year," Arthur said, gripping him back. "When I went back. No, I... I don't suppose we've seen each other since then."

"Thank god for the letters," Alfred said, smiling weakly.

"Hm." Arthur gave a little roll of his eyes. "Indeed, a fine thing they are - censored to high heaven."

Alfred frowned.

"...Censored?"

"Oh, god, yes - can't have the Germans getting them, using them to deface morale, the usual rubbish." Arthur gave a dismissive, impatient wave of his hand. "Everything I said in those letters, Alfred, bloody forget it - it's much worse than anything I wrote." He shook his head tiredly. "It's much worse than you could ever imagine."

"O-oh." Alfred didn't know what to say to that. "...So, uh, are you on... leave or something?"

"Not for another two weeks," Arthur grumbled. "I'm afraid I'm here on business, actually." He looked meaningfully at Alfred. "With you."

Alfred blinked.

"_Me_?"

"Mm." Arthur didn't seem all that interested in his purpose at the moment. "But, well, I'll get to that. I'm just off the bloody ship, I haven't eaten, I haven't slept, I could punch a hole in the wall, to tell you the truth..."

"Well then!" Alfred hopped up. "You know what? Now that I'm up, I'm hungry too. Let's have some breakfast!"

Another grateful grin from Arthur. He had a bruise on his cheekbone and around his eye socket, obvious when he smiled.

"I knew I could count on you to say that," he said, heaving himself up.

Alfred wrapped an arm around Arthur's waist, pulling him close; he leaned in quickly, furtively, and pressed a kiss to his cheek. He tasted like salt and coal with the faint grit of mud ghosting far beneath.

"I've missed you," he muttered, almost embarrassed. "After all that time together... I feel so lonely without you."

"Naturally." Arthur smirked. "You're a war sweetheart now."

Alfred snorted.

"You know I wouldn't be waiting at home if I had my way," he said softly, whispered into Arthur's ear.

"Is that so." This wasn't a question on Arthur's part. He found Alfred's hand and squeezed affectionately and said nothing more.

"Which ship did you come over on?" Alfred asked, changing the topic; it was a touchy issue.

Arthur didn't answer for a second; when he did, he looked cautiously at Alfred.

"_Olympic_," he said.

Alfred shuddered.

"I don't want that thing in my habour," he said coolly. "...I read it looks _exactly _like her inside, staircase and all. Is that true?"

"More or less. There are always a lot of ghoulish tourists booked on for precisely that reason. Still..." Arthur glanced slyly at Alfred. "I do think you're being silly. Have you seen _Olympic _recently? She's covered in dazzle paint."

"Oh yeah?"

"Indeed - you really should see her. She doesn't look a thing like _Titanic _at all."

* * *

"...Now, I must ask you not to judge hastily," Arthur said, handing a small white envelope across the debris of their shared breakfast; he stirred his tea distractedly as Alfred took it. "This is a diplomatic invitation. I think it wise not to let... certain events cloud your decision."

"Huh." Alfred narrowed his eyes suspiciously, picking up his used butter knife to slit the envelope open. He pushed his plate aside to shake out the contents: a folded letter, a colour postcard and a ticket. "...Arthur-"

"I'm only the messenger," Arthur interrupted primly, taking another piece of toast, cold and dry, just to nibble on. "Though I might have known that you wouldn't be receptive."

The postcard was a watercolour painting of a ship; a long black-bodied creature with four orange funnels. His stomach bubbled in revulsion, in utter horror, just looking at it. He turned it face-down and looked heavy-hearted at the ticket instead. It was stamped with the Cunard logo and had tomorrow's date on it.

"No," Alfred said immediately. He put the ticket down. "Absolutely not. There is no way on this _earth_."

"Oh, don't be so ridiculous," Arthur said witheringly. "Do you even know which one _Lusitania _is?"

"I know she's got four funnels." Alfred shook his head. "That cements it for me."

"You only know that because of the postcard."

"I don't _do _four funnel liners." Alfred shivered. "Not after _Titanic_."

Arthur sighed.

"Alfred, believe it or not, some _good _actually came out of _Titanic_'s sinking - all passenger liners are now required by maritime law to carry enough lifeboats for all souls on board."

"Too little too late," Alfred said crossly. "You agreed with me when we read that in the paper after the _Titanic _Inquiry."

"Ah, yes." Arthur's green eyes gleamed. "Wasn't that held in this very hotel?"

"I don't see what that has to do with anything." Alfred crumpled the letter without even opening it. "The answer is no."

"You can't stay in the United States for the rest of your life."

"Well, once we get aviation going full-speed-"

"For god's sake, Alfred, we don't have time for you to fiddle about with toy aeroplanes!" Arthur snapped, slamming his cup onto its saucer. "This is serious. We are _at_ _war_."

"_You _are, you mean," Alfred said uneasily. "I'm neutral, officially - so what difference does it make if I accept your invitation or not?"

"Because the Germans are scare-mongering and it's not good for morale!"

"Morale, _morale_!" Alfred replied heatedly. "Is that all you care about, Arthur?"

"Of course not," Arthur said frustratedly, "but you can't win a war with just weapons, you know that - if there is no will to fight, if we allow ourselves to be terrorised, then we've as good as lost."

Alfred shrugged, looking away. He fidgeted uncomfortably with the ticket.

"I still don't see what that has to do with me," he muttered.

"More and more Americans are opting out of Transatlantic travel, which is perfectly safe, I assure you - what with the naval escorts on board all liners. I myself was part of the escort for _Olympic _- and so will I be for _Lusitania _when she sets sail for Liverpool tomorrow. When you consider that, it's safer than it's ever been; but propaganda is making people frightened and we can't have that. We don't want the war doing any more damage than it already is."

"Oh?" Alfred looked at Arthur suspiciously. "And it doesn't have anything to do with the fact that you use passenger liners to sneak the weapons we sell you into Britain?"

"Now where would you have heard a thing like that, Mr Jones?" Arthur asked dangerously.

Alfred gave an aggravated sigh, taking a distracted gulp of his cooling coffee.

"So what you're saying," he muttered," is that you want me to act as a cover?"

"Not a cover," Arthur insisted. "A poster boy, of sorts. You're the national personification of the United States. If people see you making the journey, it'll restore confidence. Transatlantic travel is a huge part of our national income - we can't afford to have it jeopardised, it could affect our entire economy and, well... we need that money for weapons."

"How about I just give you weapons instead?" Alfred asked weakly.

"I assure you that you'd be doing a greater service by accepting that all-expenses-paid First Class ticket to Liverpool, England." Arthur lowered his voice. "...Besides, I'm on leave soon, I recall mentioning. I thought, after the voyage, you and I might spend some time together in London - and perhaps the country house-"

"Stop." Alfred put up his hand. "Stop it. I-I'll think about it, okay? No promises, because I really don't want to set foot on that ship, but... I'll think about it, I promise. But stop, please. It feels like you're bullying me."

Arthur shrugged.

"I am," he said carelessly, finishing his last bite of toast. "Well, it's a start, at least. You'll need to make a decision soon, however. The _Lusitania _sets sail tomorrow."

"Yes, alright, _alright_." Alfred shot him an ugly look. "Can we talk about something else, please?"

"Certainly." Arthur put out his hand. "Let's talk about how you're going to give me the key to your suite."

"Oh yeah?" Alfred's eyebrows raised. "And why would I do that?"

"I want to make use of your bed."

Alfred grinned, leaning his chin on his linked hands.

"Commandeering the bed, Captain Kirkland? Whatever for, I wonder?"

"_Commodore_," Arthur corrected witheringly, "and for sleeping."

"Ah." Alfred pursed his lips. "That's disappointing."

* * *

Alfred was quiet in rifling through the pile of newspapers on his desk, not wanting to wake Arthur. He had teased him all the way upstairs, perhaps even made a bit of a show that he had missed him, that he was quite ready whenever Arthur was, made a few lurid suggestions here and there; but in the end he had decided that it could wait until later. Arthur was almost dead on his feet by the time they got to Alfred's luxurious suite and more or less crawled into bed, being none too neat with his precious uniform as he struggled out of it. Alfred had hung it over the back of one of the armchairs for him, watching him settle.

It was a curious thing about nations: that they could embody so much history, hold whole languages on their tongue, take so much pain, bear the weight of immortality - and still their bodies could be as fragile as that of humans. They needed sustenance and sleep as did their people (and still, too, could they fall folly to the weaknesses of humans, these Arthur so often amply displayed, having been overweight just three years before and now, devoured by the war, quite the opposite and alarmingly thin, Alfred had felt the jut of his hip-bone when he'd slipped his arm around his waist).

Alfred found the paper he was looking for - _The New York Times_, dated April 22nd, 1915 - and turned it over, rifling through it. It came to him soon enough, jumping out at him with an urgency from the corner of the page.

_Notice!_

_Travellers intending to embark on the Atlantic voyage are reminded that a state of war exists between Germany and her allies and Great Britain and her allies; that the zone of war includes the waters adjacent to the British Isles; that, in accordance with formal notice given by the Imperial German Government, vessels flying the flag of Great Britain, or any of her allies, are liable to destruction in those waters and that travellers sailing in the war zone on the ships of Great Britain or her allies do so at their own risk._

_Imperial German Embassy_

_Washington, D.C., April 22, 1915_

This ran beneath the words, in bold capitals, 'Cunard' and 'Lusitania'. There was even a helpful, if blotted, picture of the _Lusitania _between them, all four funnels accounted for. Alfred read over it again, barely holding back an ironic snort at 'her', as though Arthur and Ludwig were ladies involved in a petty scratching match.

(And, in the grand scheme of things, maybe that's all it was.)

This was different to _Titanic_. There had been no warning, no omen, no reason to fear; it had been a terrible accident and that's all there was to it. But travelling on _Lusitania _was dangerous, there was a warning here in the newspaper to prove it. Could Arthur blame his trepidation, truly, when here it was in black and white?

He glanced at the ticket again, his mouth dry, before looking back to the warning. He read it again.

_Travellers sailing in the war zone on the ships of Great Britain or her allies do so at their own risk._

"I'm not even your ally," Alfred muttered, looking towards the bed. "Not officially. Not _ever _if Wilson can help it."

He sighed and tossed the newspaper down, heaving himself out of his chair; he went to the bed and clambered on, crawling over the covers until he reached Arthur, curled up in the middle, whereupon he promptly flopped on top of him.

"Mmm." Arthur woke, grumbling, and turned his face against his neck. "What?"

"I want to ask you something," Alfred sighed, nuzzling against him. "The ship. You know. _Lusitania_."

"Hmm?"

"Will... will she be carrying any weapons? To England. From here. Through the war zone."

"No."

"You promise?" Alfred insisted, squirming.

"Of course." Arthur put his arm around him. "...Do you want to come under?"

"Nah, I'm fine here." Alfred sighed, settling, breathing him in. "...You'll owe me."

"I daresay I can make it up to you," Arthur murmured sleepily.

"Yeah, well, you better," Alfred griped. He took off his glasses and tossed them aside. "'Cause I'll remember."

"I know." Arthur kissed the top of his head. "And Alfred... thank you."

* * *

The Imperial German Embassy really did put a warning in the newspapers more or less telling people that they might torpedo any transatlantic passenger ship they were on. Numbers dropped off dramatically across the board and many people opted out of the _Lusitania_'s last ever voyage due to the notice.

_RMS Olympic _surged in popularity after the sinking of the _Titanic _because they were so similar and _Titanic _so infamous - in fact, the only photograph of the famous staircase, used by James Cameron as a reference for the film, is not _Titanic_'s staircase at all but is in fact _Olympic'_s. She lost her White Star colours during the war and was dazzle-painted to stop her being torpedoed.

The _Titanic _Inquiry was indeed held in the Waldorf-Astoria: and half of the name, 'Astoria', comes from 'Astor' (John Jacob Astor IV, who had built the original Astoria Hotel, died in the _Titanic _disaster).

_RMS Lusitania _sets sail tomorrow, May 1st!


	2. Saturday May 1st, 1915

Hello everyone - and welcome to Day 2 of _1915_! I've been doing some planning and I think I _will _be doing a chapter for every day until the date of the sinking - May 7th - although some will be considerably shorter than others.

Thank you, so far, to: **IggyButt, april sherbet, Icarus Wing, jagaimo-chan, Lamashtar Two **and **Girlwithnolife**! Glad to hear you're all enjoying the story so far!

Saturday 1st May, 1915

The atmosphere was nothing like Southampton.

Alfred couldn't help but wonder if it was down to the German Embassy's warning in the papers a week previous; but it was definitely noticeable, a strange, muted sense of forboding in the sharp, salty air. Loved ones hugged just that little bit longer, promises to write or telegram as soon as safety in Liverpool was reached seemed to be more in earnest, even a dog seemed nervous, circling its owner's legs in distraction. Clutching his crumpled ticket, Alfred took a deep breath and shut the car door behind him.

It was a pleasant day, warm with a brisk, fresh breeze; and there was still the usual crowd the sailing of the big liners brought in, curious children and enthusiasts with cameras. _Olympic _in particular always brought in a surge, those with a ghoulish preoccupation with her doomed sister, and Alfred was relieved to see that she wasn't here, dazzle paint or no.

"She's gone on to Halifax," Arthur said intuitively, coming to his side. He was back in his white uniform, neatly steamed and pressed at the hotel the night before. "I do hope someone had the sense to move my things between the ships, though." He looked at Alfred. "Do you have your belongings?"

Alfred held up his small case, hastily packed not an hour before. Arthur nodded, adjusting his hat.

"Well, then, let's push on," he said, beckoning. He started away, his pace quick and smart; it was always obvious when he was at war, it bloomed in him like a summer garden, bursting out in his every motion, everything about him honed and practical. He vanished into the crowd, Alfred trailing after him, listening to the car rev and putter away over the cobbles.

He eased his way through the crowd, following the glimpses of white flashing at elbows and behind hair ribbons; drawing ever closer to the _RMS Lusitania_, which peaked like a mountain range above the mass of people, seeming to grow taller and taller until she towered over him and he was craning his neck at those four deep orange funnels, bloodied barbs from the beast's great back. They had black tips just like _Titanic_'s.

The last time he had looked up at a ship like this - four funnels outstretched to the heavens - had been as their lifeboat had been lowered into the black waters of the Atlantic.

"What are you looking at?" Arthur was back, tugging at his wrist. "I know she's not all that impressive but she's getting on a bit now, you know."

"Couldn't you have gotten us a passage on the _Carpathia_?" Alfred groaned.

"The _Carpathia _is busy," Arthur replied dismissively. "She's being used as a troop ship."

"W-well, couldn't you have gotten us a passage on... on something that didn't look so much like the _Titanic_?!"

"What are you talking about?" Arthur asked. "_Lusitania _doesn't look like _Titanic_, don't be absurd. She's much smaller, she has the ridged funnels common on Cunard liners and you can see from here that her back end is completely different in design, what with the open decking." He gave Alfred a suspicious look. "I do believe you're just being difficult."

"Can you blame me?" Alfred asked witheringly. "_Titanic _was supposed to be unsinkable and-"

"Now I'll just stop you there because _no-one _said it was unsinkable except the newspapers and you know how reliable _they _are." Arthur sighed impatiently. "Alfred, it's perfectly safe, I assure you. I've served on the naval escort of several liners these past two months and we've never had any incidents - and the _Aquitania _is one of the bulkiest, slowest ships I've ever had the displeasure of sailing on."

"But Germany has outright _threatened_-"

"Yes, well, I'm going to put a boot up Ludwig's backside for that next time I see him," Arthur said curtly. He clapped his hands at Alfred. "Now come along or they'll sail without us."

He ushed him along to the gangplank, Alfred not resisting but not really helping, either. They stood behind a rich socialite husband and wife, waiting to board, and Alfred watched the lines of Third Class going through their health inspections further down the dockside. He noticed that Arthur was firmly clamped onto his arm in case (he presumed) he decided to bolt for it.

There was a little irony in that.

"You know, you don't have to hold onto me like a kid," Alfred whispered coldly. "I'm not going to run off like you did when we were told to get into a lifeboat."

Arthur glared at him.

"Don't fucking test me," he breathed in reply.

The husband and wife were moved on and they were next up; Arthur pushed him forward with a salute.

"Third Officer," he said.

"Commodore," came the reply, the salute given in kind; and the young man in his Cunard uniform put out his hand for Alfred's ticket. "And Mr Jones, of course. If I could see your ticket, please, sir."

Alfred opened his sweaty palm and let his crumpled ticket change hands; the Third Officer smoothed it out to inspect it.

"Very good, sir," he said briskly; he stamped the ticket and handed it back. "Do you have any luggage you need carried on board?"

"Oh, uh, no, just this little case." Alfred clutched it quite tightly. "I can carry it myself."

The Third Officer raised his eyebrows before nodding.

"As you wish, sir." He looked to Arthur again. "Your affects were moved yesterday afternoon from the _RMS Olympic_, Commodore."

"Thank you." Arthur put his hand firmly between Alfred's shoulder blades and pushed him onto the gangplank somewhat forcefully. "Come along, Alfred."

"Don't shove me!" Alfred hissed, shrugging him off.

"Oh, don't make a scene..."

"_You're _the one making a scene!"

"Fine then." Arthur shot him a dangerous smile. "Shall we promenade like society ladies, then?"

"Sure." Alfred linked his arm through Arthur's somewhat violently, their elbows locking together. "Shall we, _Commodore_?"

Arthur seemed almost amused that Alfred had risen to the bait; he gave a toss of his head and straightened his back.

"Certainly." He had a hold on Alfred either way, it seemed, and he lost no time in more or less frog-marching him up the gangplank.

Alfred went along with it, thinking it must look rather funny, especially with Arthur looking so haughty about the whole thing; but then they came to the end of the gangplank and the next step would take him onto the deck of the _RMS Lusitania_.

He stopped.

"Alfred." Though he was gentler this time, there was an air of impatience in Arthur's voice. "Do come along like a good chap. You don't want to hold up the boarding."

"Well, maybe I do," Alfred mumbled, looking at the wood between his feet. The gangplank was so rough and dirty compared to the buffed, clean wood of the _Lusitania_'s deck. "So she can't sail."

"Oh, _really_!" Arthur exhaled through his nose, tugging at Alfred's arm. He was already on board, one hand on the rail. "That's quite enough! You have a national duty to do - so get your arse on this ship _immediately_!"

Alfred swallowed, feeling Arthur pull away his arm. Knowing he must look a fool, desperate to overcome his fear, he willed his feet to move, to take that last step onto the ship, the one that he had taken for granted whilst boarding _Titanic_-

But he couldn't. His feet wouldn't budge. He looked at Arthur helplessly.

"I know it's stupid," he began desperately, "but I-"

"It's not stupid," Arthur interrupted quietly. "I know you're afraid - but I need you, Alfred. Come on." He put out his hand. "I'll help you."

"O-okay..." Alfred took a deep breath and thrust out his hand, fingers splayed and searching; and Arthur caught them up tightly, the blood beating in his fingertips.

"Come on, I have you." Arthur pulled gently, urging him forward. "Good lad."

"Alright, I'm coming, just...!" Alfred squeezed his eyes tightly shut, letting only the warmth of Arthur's hand guide him; he couldn't see the deck, he couldn't see the divide, and he took the last step with a swallowed breath. "...There!"

"Good lad," Arthur said again, quieter, gentler. He pressed both of his hands reassuringly to Alfred's for a short moment. "Little by little; isn't that what we learnt?"

"Yeah," Alfred replied weakly. He shifted his weight distractedly from foot to foot. He was on board at last but he wasn't comfortable; and this, he knew, Arthur sensed.

"Come on." Arthur's tone went brisk and official again, though he kept hold of Alfred's hand. "I daresay you don't want to stay on deck for the launch and I've seen more pushings-off than I've had hot meals. Let's go to our suite."

"_Our _suite?"

"Well, it seemed like waste to have a room each," Arthur said carelessly, weaving Alfred behind him through the crowds of passengers leaning over the rails to wave goodbye, the sort of thing passangers were prone to doing. "Given that you more or less moved into my suite on the _Titanic _after the first night. Think of this as you returning the favour - given that the suite is under your name."

"So you don't have a room," Alfred murmured, taking his last breath of smoky air as Arthur led him through the open doorway from the boat deck down the sheltered core of the promenade deck; they emerged into a grand lobby, the gilt cage of the elevator glittering in the centre.

"Not as such." They started down the staircase - a precise square thing with nice rails and red carpet, although it hadn't the sweeping majesty of _Titanic_'s. "I have a bed in the officers' quarters but I don't plan to make much use of it." He shot Alfred a meaningful look. "It's a bloody big bed - I think you can spare the room."

"Only if I can charge you rent."

Arthur sighed amusedly, grinning.

"Alright," he said. "I suppose I can live with that."

Alfred nodded.

"Good."

The_ Lusitania_, so similar on the exterior, had a very different look to the _Titanic _within; she was lighter, airier, with more of an illusion of open space. She was simpler, too, in her decor, no doubt because she'd be slightly cheaper to produce and therefore wasn't weighed down with every style from Baroque to Nouveau; in many ways, though _Titanic _had been so new as to have sunk on her maiden voyage, _Lusitania _seemed more modern, pleasant with less fuss. Arthur, who had escorted her to Canada the previous month, was familiar with her layout already and rattled off her assets to Alfred: the library, the reading and writing room (used mostly by ladies, although men were welcome), the smoking rooms for each class, the verandah cafe ("not as nice as the Cafe Parisien on board _Titanic_," Arthur confided, "but as least Francis has nothing to whinge about..."), the First Class music room, the dining saloons and their locations according to class.

"You must forgive her," Arthur said candidly, "for she was launched in 1907 and isn't really comparable to the _Olympic _class of White Star Line. I'm afraid there's no gym and certainly no swimming pool."

"I don't think I'll feel much like swimming," Alfred muttered. "Anyway, you've changed your tune about passenger liners. I thought you hated them."

"I like them a bit more now that they're pulling their weight," Arthur sighed. "I can't fault the likes of _Olympic _or _Britannic_, they've both been more than useful, as has the _Mauretania_."

They came to (what Alfred assumed) was the door to their suite; Arthur already had the key, swiftly unlocking the white door before pressing the cold metal into Alfred's hand and breezing in.

"That's your key," he said. "I'll get another."

"Thanks," Alfred muttered, pocketing it; he followed Arthur in and shut the door with his weight, dropping his case.

As a suite, it was smaller than Arthur's mini-palace on board _Titanic_, with lower ceilings; but it was nice all the same, clearly the height of luxury in 1907, with polished pine accents and soft blue-and-gold carpet and a mosaic in lush blues and greens above the fireplace. The parlour had a writing desk, several plush chairs, a fainting couch and a coffee table, a handsome thing with carved legs; and they had a small bathroom, done out in Roman green, adjacent to the bedroom. The bed chamber itself was, again, much simpler than its _Titanic _counterpart, which Alfred recalled as having a four poster bed with hangings, quite uncalled for: here the bed was large, with more than room enough for them both, but it was a simpler affair, with only its gilt headboard and gold-embroidered pillows for decoration.

Arthur was in here already, ignoring his case in favour of inspecting his other naval uniform - the blue one with its smart gold buttons and red piping - hanging from the wardrobe door. Alfred threw his own case onto the bed and kicked off his shoes.

"How many uniforms do you actually _have_, Arty?" he asked conversationally, unbuckling his suitcase.

"Two naval, military and merchant," Arthur replied. "Technically I'm not Merchant Navy but the line can be somewhat blurred sometimes, what with the East India Company and all that; and this escort business is somewhere in the grey between military and civilian service." He gestured to his blue uniform. "So I'll be wearing this during this voyage." He sighed. "Then there's the wretched army uniforms, to be honest the khaki isn't much an improvement on the red, it's all the same when you're wet and freezing in the trench..."

"They're really working you to the bone, huh?" Alfred fished out his shaving kit and toothbrush and took them to the bathroom.

"Mm. A bit here, a bit there... I was in the trenches over Christmas and it was bloody miserable, I can tell you. I'd rather have been at sea." he scowled. "And then, when we get to Liverpool, I have to go down to London for a week to do a ten foot high pile of paperwork at the War Office."

"But then you're free, right?" Alfred leaned back around the bathroom door. "And we can do whatever the hell we want for three weeks."

"That's the plan." Arthur sighed and started to undress, taking out a hanger for his white uniform.

Alfred blinked at him confusedly, coming back into the room.

"Why are you changing?"

"I'm on duty this afternoon, I'm afraid." Arthur looked at him apologetically. "I go on at noon - to oversee _Lusitania_'s launch."

"O-oh." Alfred felt rather stupid, somehow; because he'd known that Arthur would be working on this voyage but it still hadn't occurred to him that that meant he wasn't going to be seeing an awful lot of him. "Uh, until when?"

"Eight o' clock." Arthur reached for his jacket, pulling it on over his shirt and tie. "We can dine together, if you don't mind waiting."

"Yeah, that..." Alfred sat on the edge of the bed. "That sounds fine."

"I _am _sorry, Alfred. I do think it's perfectly wretched of them to put me on first duty when I was on the last watch for _Olympic_."

"Yeah, that's... kind of lousy."

There was a sudden knock at the suite door, drifting through the rooms; Arthur, halfway through pulling trousers on, nodded in the direction of the sound.

"Would you mind awfully?"

"Sure," Alfred said, getting up; although, truthfully, he actually minded _everything _quite awfully, especially the fact that Arthur was vanishing almost immediately after luring Alfred onto this godforsaken liner. He stomped to the door to the suite and wrenched it open moodily, finding a middle-aged man in a naval uniform identical to Arthur's standing before him.

"Good afternoon, sir," the man said politely, tipping his cap to Alfred. "Would you be so kind as to inform Commodore Kirkland that we will be sailing in fifteen minutes."

"Yeah, hang on." Alfred leaned back into the suite. "Arthur! Your buddy here says we're sailing in fifteen minutes! Better get a move on!"

Arthur came out of the room at this, scowling, still doing up his jacket buttons. Standing in the middle of the parlour, he met the officer's gaze over Alfred's shoulder and nodded.

"Thank you, Sub-Lieutenant. I'll be along shortly."

He went back into the bedroom; and Alfred, not waiting for a reply from the Sub-Lieutenant, swung the door shut and followed him moodily, his hands in his pockets.

"There was no need for all that shouting," Arthur chided him, watching him in the mirror as he put on his hat.

"How else were you meant to hear me?" Alfred griped. He flopped onto the bed, sprawling out. "Anyway, you're going to be late if you don't shake a leg, Commodore."

"Oh, don't be like this," Arthur sighed, turning to him. "I said I was sorry. It's not my fault I have to work."

"You're always working," Alfred complained. "You make me feel like a damned housewife, always left at home."

"Alfred, there's a war on-"

"Jeez, I _know _that, I just-"

"Which," Arthur interrupted, coming to the bedside, "makes it all the nicer that I have something of a home to come back to."

Alfred sat up.

"Kiss me," he said, looking archly at Arthur, "and make it a damn good one or you can sleep on that fainting couch tonight."

"Oh, goodness, now I really _do _feel like a browbeaten husband..." Arthur grinned and leaned in, taking Alfred by the face to make him tilt just a little bit; and their mouths met with the clash of hot wet breath and the faintest clack of teeth and Alfred wrapped his arms around Arthur's neck with the full intent, he admitted, to pull him down with him-

Arthur, however, resisted, drawing out the kiss until Alfred felt dizzy and broke away for breath, gasping; and then Arthur triumphantly squirmed free.

"Let's call that one a work in progress," he said, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand.

"God," Alfred sputtered, clawing for purchase on Arthur's pristine uniform, "get back here, you son of a bitch...!"

"No, I can't." Arthur pressed a brief kiss to Alfred's forehead and stepped back, well out of his reach. "Much as I'd like to, I must go. It's almost noon." He went to the door of the bedroom. "I'll see you later, Alfred. Good day."

Off he went; moments later Alfred heard the suite door open and close again with a click. He was gone.

Alfred sighed and rolled over, closing his eyes. Already the spike of arousal, having just welled hotly within him, was beginning to subside, painted over thickly with the mire of dread pooled in the pit of his belly, cold and immovable. Arthur was a sly one, there was no doubt about it, having taken him indoors right away, getting him settled, giving him somewhere to hide.

Here, alone in the quiet, _Lusitania_'s engines dormant far beneath, he lay on the clean sheets he would share with Arthur later tonight and felt that he really might as well be here rather than on the wretched boat deck, waving goodbye to New York.

There was no escape either way.

* * *

Btw, for all interested, I am (sort of) cross-posting the story to my tumblr (link on my profile) with supplementary bits and pieces like pictures and deck-plans, etc, just to add that little bit more. I really ought to have done it last year with _1912 _- although, with that said, all you need to do is watch _Titanic _to get an accurate representation of that ship decor-wise, I mean, no wonder that film was the most expensive ever made at the time... o.O

_RMS Mauretania _and _RMS Aquitania_, both mentioned in this chapter, were _Lusitania_'s sister ships. Both completed full working careers and _Aquitania _was the only four-funnel liner to serve in both world wars; she was scrapped in 1950. _Britannic_, of course, was _Titanic_'s baby sister, serving as a hospital ship when she sank off Greece in 1916.

(...Don't worry, there won't be a third sequel entitled _1916 _about that! XD)


	3. Sunday May 2nd, 1915

Kind of a short chapter today, everyone, but it begins to unearth a few little... ah, cracks that might need attending to between Alfred and Arthur. They ain't living the Jack-and-Rose runaway life any more. :C

Thank you so much to: **Zeplerfer, IcarusWing, Lamashtar Two, Xenia van Hausen, Krystie T, gracezilla, blulious, Lyra, Guest, Spica-san Dee **and **Iggy Butt**! Reading all of your lovely comments has made me smile so much! It makes the lack of sleep worth it! XD

Sunday 2nd May, 1915

The First Class dining saloon was much quieter this morning; last night, on the first eve of sailing, it had been packed out with every society lady and these men of titles on board the ship, it seemed, all dressed up to the nines and out to make their presence known. Alfred had been thankful for their smaller table - just Arthur and he, joined by a few people Arthur seemed to know, including a former Welsh MP, David Alfred Thomas, and an American writer, Justus Forman; and Alfred himself knew the face of a Southern man, a Mr Ogden H. Hammond, a politician currently climbing the ranks back home.

It seemed safe to say that Arthur was more than recovered; and if Alfred hadn't cured him for good then the war certainly had, for last night he'd really seemed himself again, engaged and animated and clever with his words, holding court and enjoying the attention. He had changed for dinner, his purple waistcoat flourished with gold peeking richly from beneath his dinner jacket, and had eaten well under Alfred's observation, not hestitating once, a habit which had been difficult to fight out of him; overall, he seemed to be enjoying the way of things on board much more than he had on _Titanic, _relaxing into his off-duty role as the national representative of Great Britain.

Alfred, meanwhile, was finding it much more difficult; he couldn't settle, distracted by _Lusitania_'s motion, by the sound of her engines purring beneath the white noise of mindless First Class chatter, and frankly he'd resented Arthur somewhat last night, feeling ignored and pushed aside when he perhaps wasn't as talkative as he might have been. He'd felt it was poor form, really, when _he _hadn't questioned Arthur's near-reclusiveness on board _Titanic_.

He hadn't enjoyed dinner, either way, playing absently with his food - lamb cutlets with braised Portugal onions and new potatoes, all wonderfully cooked but ultimately a bit tasteless to him. Dessert had been a distraction - pears and creamed rice, something he hadn't had in a long time - but, by the time the coffee had come, Arthur had been completely useless, more than a bit tipsy and talking fanciful nonsense to the writer, who drank it all in. Alfred knew better than to pay him any mind when he got like this and had excused himself when Arthur had led a trail of them to the smoking room like rats following the Pied Piper. Alfred had been glad to be rid of him, really; and was asleep by the time Arthur came back.

It wasn't the first night he'd planned but at least they'd snuggled up together, Arthur's heartbeat louder than the rumblings of _Lusitania_'s belly.

This morning, however, was different. He didn't have to share Arthur, to begin with, as the two of them took breakfast alone in the First Class dining saloon; and the tone of the place was much more pleasant, not crammed to the hilt with the peacocks of high society, and with the natural light of the day doing it more justice. It had two floors and they sat together on the higher balcony, overlooking the larger tables below; like _Titanic_, _Lusitania _made use of a large dome of glass to let in the daylight, and the morning sun streamed in muted gold through the panes of decorated Nouveau, playing sweetly over the plaster pillars thrown through the room like harp strings. It gave the saloon an airier feel than the electric lights and Alfred preferred it, feeling much more relaxed.

Breakfast was wonderful, a typical spring offering of cooked fish, breads and fruit; and they were sharing a pot of fresh, sweet ceylon tea, three gulps at most in a tiny china teacup, the sort Alfred's hands were almost too big for.

"You seem in a better mood this morning, love," Arthur observed, stirring a fresh cup. He was already dressed in his dark blue uniform, gold buttons twinkling in the sun.

"Ah, you know what they say," Alfred replied absently. "Everything's better in the morning."

Arthur wrinkled his nose.

"I can't stand morning people," he said, "though I suppose it's only because I'm not much of one myself."

"No, you're a grouch," Alfred agreed. He looked at his battered, scuffed pocket watch. "Oh, good; we've still got plenty of time to get to church."

Arthur looked up sharply; this was clearly news to him.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Church. You know. The thing on Sundays." Alfred looked pointedly at him. "There's a service in the First Class lounge at eleven sharp."

"Alfred, I've got work to do before I go on duty," Arthur groaned. "I really haven't the time-"

"Given that you ditched me all day yesterday _and _last night and you're going to be leaving me _again _today to amuse myself," Alfred interrupted coldly, "I think the least you can do is go to a damned church service with me, Arthur."

Arthur rolled his green eyes.

"If you _must _have me skive off," he said flatly, "I can think of far better ways to spend my valuable time."

"Oh, like what?" Alfred asked boredly.

"Like giving you something to ask for forgiveness for." This Arthur punctuated with a smirk, suggestive and inviting.

Alfred wasn't taking the bait, however, leaning back in his chair and folding his arms.

"Nice try," he said, "but we're going to church."

"Why?" Arthur scoffed. "So that God can have mercy on my wicked soul?"

Alfred side-eyed him sceptically.

"Something like that," he muttered.

"That might take some doing," Arthur went on, examining his fingernails.

"Ha, I couldn't have said it any better myself."

Alfred won in the end, although Arthur insisted on making a detour back to the suite first to retrieve a small red notebook that Alfred - heavy-heartedly - didn't much like the look of; this and a pencil, tucked safely inside his uniform jacket. Alfred said nothing about the notebook, of course, not wanting to jump to any sort of conclusion; although, now that he thought about it, he had noticed that Arthur was eating quite a lot at meals (albeit with vastly different habits to before - now he ate quickly and plentifully as though he was constantly hungry, which Alfred supposed there was some truth in).

All through the service, held in the converted First Class lounge, Arthur was distracted; Alfred could hear him muttering under his breath and watched him, from the corner of his eye, scribbling something down on the back of his hymn sheet. He leaned over to sneak a quick look and saw that it was lines of lines of complicated calculations, Arthur working out on paper what he couldn't do in his head.

"_What are you doing_?" Alfred hissed as they stood for the reading.

"_None of your business, Mr Neutral Party_," Arthur replied, crumpling the sheet so that Alfred couldn't see it.

Alfred let it drop, determined not to let Arthur distract him from the church service; he was not overzealous in his religion but a Sunday morning service was a habit for him, a custom and a comfort, and he felt better for going, almost as though everything was normal-

Arthur and his red notebook be damned.

He was still writing in it, oblivious, when the service ended and everyone stood up to leave. Alfred cleared his throat and nudged him irritably.

"Hey, show's over," he said frostily. "Not that you paid any attention."

"Need I remind you that I am _at war with Germany_?" Arthur asked impatiently, looking up at him. When Alfred simply pulled an obnoxious face, he sighed and stood up, pocketing his notebook. "Anyway, I'd better get going. I get off again at eight o' clock. Shall we dine then?"

"Well, I don't know," Alfred said curtly. "Will you be writing in your damned notebook then too? Or will you be ignoring me in favour of getting drunk with old politicians?"

Arthur shot him a disgusted look.

"I'm not very enamoured of your attitude, Alfred," he said coldly. "I do have my duties - and I won't be made a villain of for carrying them out."

"W-well!" Alfred burst out frustratedly. "_I'm _only here because _you _asked me to be!"

"Oh, grow up." Arthur turned away. "This isn't a personal favour, nor is it a holiday. Don't you realise what's at stake?"

"It's not my fault you can't go a year without trying to kill each other in Europe!" Alfred snapped. "What the hell has it got to do with me - after all, you said it was none of my business!"

"Not _yet_."

"Not _ever_. I'm Isolationist, remember?"

"Is that so?" Arthur turned back to him, leaning in close. "Well, forgive me, but I don't know how Isolationist you can really be if you open your legs for the likes of _me_." He looked at Alfred haughtily; and Alfred, in turn, looked rather shocked at his words. "Remember whose side you're on before you start mouthing off."

"I-I'm not on _anybody's _side!" Alfred was furious. "_Neutral party_, remember?!"

"Hmph." Arthur looked at him imperiously. "Well, we'll soon see about that, won't we?"

Again he turned on his heel, waving dismissvely to Alfred, who stood with his fists clenched in the middle of the lounge, beginning to bustle with passengers coming to and fro between them.

"Really," Arthur added, not giving him a second look, "I don't know how much longer you expect to be able to hide."

Losing his temper, not caring who saw him do it, Alfred lunged forward, seizing Arthur by the elbow and hauling him back.

"That's damned rich coming from _you_!" he spat, shaking him.

"Yes, I know," Arthur said calmly, meeting his gaze. "But the world is coming apart at the seams, love. If only you could _see _the war... well, then you'd know that this isn't 1912 anymore."

* * *

The three travellers mentioned at the start here - **David Alfred Thomas**,** Justus Forman **and **Ogden H. Hammond **- were all real First Class passengers on board the _Lusitania _on her last voyage. Thomas and Hammond both survived the sinking (and Hammond went on to become the American Ambassador to Spain); sadly, Justus Forman, the youngest of the three, lost his life in the disaster.

Head on over to my tumblr if you're interested in seeing pictures of _Lusitania_'s First Class dining saloon. Personally I think it's actually nicer in design than _Titanic_'s/_Olympic_'s!

(_Titanic _and _Olympic _always win hands-down in a Battle of the Grand Staircases, though.)


	4. Monday May 3rd, 1915

Ahhh, I was worried I wouldn't get this one done but I managed it...!

Thank you to: **gracezilla, thinkingthatifpeoplewererain, IcarusWing, Guest, **another **Guest, Lamashtar Two, Kaori, Iggy Butt, Empress Vegah **and **jagaimo-chan**!

Monday 3rd May, 1915

He had seen very little of Arthur today; he was on the night watch between eight o' clock and four in the morning and had spent most of the afternoon asleep, leaving Alfred to his own devices.

Altogether, Alfred admitted that it wasn't unwelcome. Things between he and Arthur were tense, their brief interactions between Arthur's shifts sparking and volatile. Before Arthur went on duty he was stressed and harried, trying to squeeze in work between other obligations; and after he came off, he was hungry and tired and seemed to just want to drink and smoke the night away, forgetting that the war existed. Either way, there hadn't been much room for repair and so their clash of the morning before, just after the church service, remained in the air (though Arthur seemed to have more or less swept it aside). Alfred, though it was constantly on the tip of his tongue, decided not to bring it up again, certain that all he'd get for his trouble was a lecture on the Selfishness of Isolationism and didn't he know that he really should jump in while the going was still good?

Arthur was at his happiest when he was at war, however much he might complain about it; this wasn't a new concept to Alfred, who had watched him come back to Boston after months of fighting in Europe, his body battered and his face glowing. It didn't bring out the very best in him, as such, but it brought out _something_, the absence of which had been obvious in the bloated dormancy of Edward's reign, the resentful overweight creature that had made a grave of the _RMS Titanic_.

It seemed unfair to Alfred that Arthur always seemed to get what he wanted; when, so very often, what he wanted was a dreadful thing.

And as to the _Titanic_, they were sailing over the same waters which had taken her on that April night; it was dusk, the sky painted in rich purples and cold blues, and the _Lusitania _picked her smooth and careful way through the glowing castles of ice drifting by on the vast waters. They plumed against the sky like the sails of great ships of bygone days: just as he remembered seeing them at the break of dawn in the lifeboat, impossibly vast, larger than any great liner the humans could make. The _Titanic _had been nothing, a mere flake of human fancy, and so too was the _Lusitania_, for the peak of the icebergs, even at a distance, seemed so much higher than her funnels.

Somewhere beneath - and how peculiar to think - the _Titanic _lay on the the ocean floor in two pieces, surely crushed beyond all recognition. Taking his cigarette between his teeth, Alfred put his hands to the rail and leaned over the side, looking down at the midnight waters rushing past. Nothing.

It was getting cold. He shivered and straightened up again, folding his arms over the rail, exhaling on his cigarette. He hadn't gone to dinner in the First Class dining suite, toying with the idea of sneaking into the Third Class saloon before opting for something light in the privacy of the verandah cafe; he wasn't in the European way of fancy dinners and their social aspects, nor indeed did it matter to him that he hadn't received an invitation from this lord or that politician to the smoking room. He was thinking, in fact, of heading to bed soon, maybe reading for a while, forgoing any and all interaction with _Lusitania_'s high court. It wasn't his job to hold Arthur's candle for him in his absence.

He finished his cigarette and tossed it over the side, watching it spiral into the sea; and straightened up, his back popping as he arched it, hands clamped on the rail.

"Oh, I felt that."

Alfred turned towards Arthur, startled.

"Don't sneak up on me like that!" he said crossly.

"I'm not," Arthur replied candidly; he took a sip of his tea. "What on earth are you doing?"

"Nothing. Just smoking." Alfred looked away irritably. "What are _you _doing?"

"I'm on my rounds."

Alfred side-eyed him, raising his eyebrows.

"With a cup of tea?"

"It's a perk." Arthur turned the saucer towards him; two plain ship's biscuits were perched there. "Do you want a biscuit?"

Alfred took the top one moodily, not really because he wanted it but more out of spite: because he didn't want Arthur to have it. He bit into it with a _snap_, crunching it up.

"Hard as a rock," he muttered through his mouthful.

"At least they're not full of weevils," Arthur replied, shrugging. He bit into his own, chewing in silence for a moment; at length he swallowed and nodded towards a purpling iceberg gloaming in the distance. "Look at that brute. Twice the height of us just on the surface, I expect."

"Don't you have somewhere to be?" Alfred asked coldly, looking at him.

"Oh, don't be like that," Arthur sighed. "And don't worry yourself about the icebergs, either: hard lessons were learnt that night, Alfred. We'll be slowing right down once it gets dark, we might even stop for the night, and that besides, the Marconi lines are operated at all hours in case of an emergency. I believe there are at least two other ships nearby; the _Mauretania_, in fact, is coming the other way. We should be passing her very soon."

Alfred simply gave a stiff nod, finishing his biscuit. Arthur looked down at his tea for a moment before giving a sudden shake of his head.

"Well, anyway, you're distracting me," he said absently. "I'd better get to back my rounds."

Alfred snorted.

"You've got that right," he said coolly. "I'm pretty sure that's all I'm here for: to distract you."

"Alfred, here's the reality," Arthur replied dangerously. "Nothing I said yesterday morning was untrue. Perhaps you ought to give that some thought." He nodded crisply to him. "I'll see you later. Good evening."

He stalked away without another word, clearly annoyed; not that Alfred much cared, really quite irked by Arthur's official, merciless manner. It was as though (and Alfred had though this of him before) he often forgot that they were almost human, beings with thoughts and emotions, and became devoured entirely by nationhood. It was clear that, at this present time, Arthur didn't really see him as Alfred, a friend and a lover; England, rather, saw him as America, an ally, a brother-in-arms, a lifeline - and became impatient, frustrated, when Alfred flatly refused to be anything other than Alfred.

England couldn't understand the icebergs.

* * *

Somewhere between the groaning of tearing metal and the lights plunging out, the entire stern rising from the water like a monstrous siren, the funnels ripping from their moorings and tumbling like spent casings from a rifle, the foam on the black sea devouring _Titanic Liverpool_-

Alfred sat up in bed with a shout, the terror lacing in his heaving chest like an iron corset, so heavy that he could barely breathe as he shuddered in the blackness. He gasped for a long moment, disorientated, wondering just where the hell he was; because it wasn't the lifeboat, it was too hot and too dark and too loud, the sea had been silent that night after she had gone - and no, he could definitely hear the workings of a ship whirring many decks beneath, breathing up through the wood and iron.

_Lusitania_. He tipped his head back with a groan, his heart pounding; the bedroom was pitch black and so he reached out, feeling blindly for Arthur.

He wasn't there.

"Night shift." He rubbed at his temples as he remembered. "God damned night watch..."

He hadn't had a nightmare about the _Titanic _in many months; frankly he'd been fearing their relapse on the first night on board the _Lusitania_, for the rock and sway of the _Carpathia _had done them no favours, and had been relieved at their absence the first two nights.

This was the first night Arthur wasn't beside him, however.

In spite of his lingering annoyance at Arthur and his callous behaviour, he desperately wanted him now, to be wrapped up in his arms and soothed back to sleep; it was a childhood comfort, Arthur was good at chasing away nightmares even whilst half-asleep. During the two years they had spent as government fugitives, that had been Arthur's half of the bargain. They had been so good for one another then.

Alfred reached out a shaking hand and put on the bedside lamp, the room filling with a warm glow; he squinted against the sudden glare, seeing the other half of the bed unslept in. All he had for companionship was Arthur's white uniform, hanging like a straight-backed skin from the wardrobe door.

He lay down again in the light, one arm beneath his head, and looked at the wall. His breathing was beginning to slow - and his heart, too, was finally calming, though his skin still prickled all over with the residue of a fear that he had known firsthand.

He wished he couldn't hear _Lusitania. _Hearing her meant that she was still moving - just like _Titanic_. He had seen the icebergs. He knew they were there.

He was drowsy, on the verge of falling asleep again, when the bedroom door finally opened and Arthur came in; the smell of tea came with him and Alfred, who sat up on his arrival, saw that he was carrying a small steel teapot in one hand.

Arthur seemed surprised that the light was on, turning immediately towards the bed.

"Goodness, are you still awake?" He checked his pocket watch. "It's past four in the morning."

"I woke up and couldn't get back to sleep." Alfred chose his tone with some care, mindful of not sounding too needy - when all he wanted was for Arthur to get his ass into the bed. "...Why have you got a teapot?"

"I fancied a cup of tea before I go to sleep," Arthur replied. "So I pinched this from the Officer's Mess. I'll put it back on my next shift."

"Okay." Alfred bit back a plethora of snide pirate comments and lay down again. "Come to bed soon, though - so I can put the light out."

Arthur simply shot him a meaningful look before putting the teapot down the desk and going back out to the parlour; he came back with two Cunard Line teacups, delicate little things with gold rims. He poured out both cups, the fresh, clear scent filling the room, and brought them to the bed, putting one on the bedside table next to the lamp, a gorgeous Nouveau thing of coloured glass, reds and blues and greens and a flash of orange in the hearts of orchids; and these molten colours swam on the amber of the tea as Alfred eased himself up to take it.

Arthur sat on the edge of the bed, crossing one leg over the other, and sipped at his own tea, giving a tired sigh. He rolled his shoulders with a pained grunt.

"We're clear of the ice field, you'll be pleased to know," he said after a moment.

"That's good," Alfred sighed over his tea. He closed his eyes. "...I had one of those nightmares."

"I suspected as much." Arthur looked at him. "Are they as frequent?"

Alfred shook his head.

"No, it's been months, I just..." He gave another sigh, rueful and defeated. "It was probably looking at the icebergs that did it."

"That's highly likely."

Arthur's tone was absent and closed-off; Alfred looked up at him through his eyelashes as he took another mouthful of tea. Even without his glasses, he could see how tired he was, the weariness was electric in the way he was gazing at his own uniform, hanging over the back of the door, waiting for him.

"Hey." Alfred slipped his bare foot out from beneath the sheets and prodded Arthur with it. "I don't... I don't want us to fight, Arty."

Arthur looked at him with a weak smile.

"We're not fighting," he said gently. "If you want to see a fight, come and look at what we've done to Francis' land, Ludwig and I."

"W-well, I just-"

"But it's nice of you to say so." Arthur leaned over to put his cup on the bedside table. "I mean it. At a time like this... it's a lovely thing to hear." He came closer and wrapped his arms around Alfred, cuddling him close. "I know I've been unspeakable to you."

"...It's okay." Alfred pushed his cup away, too, and returned the embrace, burying his face in Arthur's chest, the smell of wool thick in his nose. "I forgive you."

"Hm." Arthur stroked his hair fondly, his voice very soft. "...Yes, I can always count on you for that, love."

* * *

OHOHOHOHOHO I DON'T KNOW ABOUT THAT, MR KIRKLAND

More tomorrow, guys! Thank you so much for your support so far! Glad to hear people are enjoying the story!


	5. Wednesday May 5th, 1915

SO HERE'S THE THING. You will have noticed, of course, that I didn't update yesterday. I made a start but I was so tired from staying up until like 3:30am the previous three nights doing the other chapters that I sort of crashed and couldn't go on (unlikeRose'shearthahaha).

But, when I made my assessment at around 2am, I realised that there was actually no need to split what has become this whole chapter into two - it flows just as well, if not better, all together. In fact, yesterday's would have just seemed kind of rushed and lacklustre, I think, had I pushed on. The difference between this and _1912 _is that _Titanic_'s journey only lasted five days (April 10th-15th) whilst _Lusitania_'s was seven (May 1st-7th) - and with _1912 _more of the story, such as the developments with Arthur's eating disorder, was in the voyage, so there was more stuff to fit into less space. With _1915_, the emphasis is really more on the coming sinking of the liner, so there's less voyage-based story to stretch over more days - so I realised that it didn't matter if I skipped a day.

That is my defence. Please forgive me. T.T

Thank you to:** jagaimo-chan, Iggy Butt, Xenia van Hausen, Krytical, Branchfoot, Child of the Fay, Guest, Lamashtar Two, AEngland, chasingwhispers, muSHIii, Spica-san Dee, **another **Guest, Icarus Wing **and **General Kitty Girl**!

Wednesday 5th May, 1915

After lunch, taken after a slept-away morning, they had retired to the First Class Lounge to while away a few hours in pleasantry. The lounge was quiet at this time of the day, with a great many of the saloon class still at luncheon or engaged in other activities, and the atmosphere was relaxed, gentle, quite unlike the razor-sharp battles of wit and class which took place in the evenings.

It was a large, airy room, with scatterings of plush chairs in red upholstery arranged around tables of polished oak; it had more breathing room, it seemed, than the First Class Lounge aboard _Titanic_, which Alfred recalled not much liking. The ceiling had been very low, he remembered, and the decor of such an extravagant baroque as to be overwhelming. Conversely, _Lusitania_'s - whilst by no means plain - seemed less closed-in, casting off an immersion in history to embrace a modern feel, reflecting the fashionable Nouveau stylings; and the crown of this the magnificent stained-glass ceiling, which by day glowed in brilliant jewel colours as the sun blazed over _Lusitania_'s back.

They sat at one of the window alcoves, the daylight warm and bright over their table. Alfred had tried his best to be immersed in Mark Twain's _A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court_, which, as a novel, was to his liking - but he found it difficult to concentrate sitting across from his own Arthur, who had the table spread out with papers and maps and, in the very centre, that red notebook.

He wasn't getting any answers from him, that was certain; when he breached it, Arthur told him in as many words that it wasn't his concern.

"But you...!" Alfred trailed off in frustration. He watched Arthur take up the notebook and his pen and start another long line of calculations, moving swiftly through them like a man possessed. "Can you blame me for being worried?"

Not looking up, Arthur pushed a plain sheet of paper towards him.

"If you'd like to write me a Declaration of War against the Central Powers," he said archly, "I'll be only too happy to alleviate your concerns."

"You're deliberately missing the point!"

"As are you." Arthur waved his hand irritably at him. "Please stop distracting me, Alfred. I won't have time to do this later - you know I'm on the night watch again."

Alfred was quiet, watching him hawkishly in annoyance. Arthur went back to his work again, although it was obvious he was aware of Alfred's observation, for he bristled under his gaze for a few moments before crossly looking up once more:

"And for god's sake," he snapped, "if you've got something to say, won't you just come out and say it instead of bloody sulking at me!"

"Alright." Alfred lost his patience, standing up. "Fine." He snatched up his book. "You want peace and quiet and for me to not so much as breathe in your direction? _Fine_. You got it."

He stomped away, frustrated beyond belief at Arthur; and disappointed, too, that his apology of two nights before and his subsequent civil(er) behaviour had lasted barely longer than twenty-four hours. Maybe he was just too nice, too forgiving, but it was only every now and again that the realisation that Arthur Kirkland was a nasty piece of work came crashing down on him, leaving him dazed. To his dismay, this wasn't the reunion he had expected it to be; those twenty-eight months he and Arthur had spent together between April 1912 and July 1914 had been, it seemed, an existence all of their own, a world where they hadn't been nations. There had been no obligations but their own to each other; and Arthur, forced to be nothing but Arthur - there being no place for England in an unheated Delaware flat - had truly been pleasant company, more or less. But for the mealtime battles, their life hadn't been unlike Alfred's childhood in Boston, where Arthur had often fled bloodied Europe to take refuge in Alfred's young and naive wonder.

Of course, it couldn't have lasted, not with Europe thrown headlong into war yet again; but Arthur had changed so much in so few months and Alfred couldn't help but be surprised and hurt every time he lashed out at him. He knew that Arthur was tired, that he was aching and overworked and under a lot of stress - but Arthur was taking all that out on him, it was obvious, and he didn't see why he should stand for it.

It wasn't _his _war, after all.

"Wait." Halfway across the lounge, Arthur caught his wrist, stopping him. "Wait, Alfred, please."

"What?" Alfred turned moodily to him, trying to prise his wrist back. "You got something else to say?"

"Yes." Arthur's shoulders sagged. "Look, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to snap at you."

"O-oh." Alfred hadn't been expecting an apology and was taken aback. "...Well-"

"I know I haven't been at my nicest," Arthur went on, "and honestly I could bite my tongue for some of the things I've said to you." He slipped his fingers down over the underside of Alfred's wrist, taking his hand. "But... I feel the need to say this: as long as you remain a neutral power in this war, there is going to be something of a barrier between us. There are some things that cannot be breached, even between you and I. I am embroiled in a war and I cannot compromise my position."

Alfred shook his head at him despairingly.

"I'm not asking you to. I would never-"

"I know," Arthur interrupted quietly, "and I know, despite your official neutrality, when it comes right down to it, you _are _on my side - but you're not my ally, Alfred. You're my friend."

"I'm more than your damned _friend_," Alfred said, annoyed.

"Well." Arthur patted Alfred's hand. "Either way, they're not the same thing as an ally. Again, please accept my utmost apology for my rudeness - but some things are nonetheless not your concern."

"I'm just _worried _about you, Arty."

"I know - and I appreciate it." Arthur smiled at him. "Look here, I'll make it up to you. Let's go to the verandah cafe and have some tea." He put out his hand. "Give me your book - I'll take it and my things back to the suite and meet you at the cafe in ten minutes."

"Alright." Alfred made a bit of a show of handing over his book, as though he did so grudgingly. "How _like _you to propose tea as a peace treaty."

"Better than throwing it in the bloody harbour. Order us the Afternoon Tea for Two." Arthur went back to their table to gather up his papers. "I'll be with you shortly."

"Who says I even want tea?" Alfred asked, teasingly antagonistic as he watched Arthur quickly tuck everything under his arm. "Maybe I'm sick of you telling me that I want tea. Maybe I think you overprice it. Maybe I'd prefer coffee."

"Maybe you'd prefer to be thrown overboard." Arthur was back already, passing him. "Won't you go? I'll be there before you at this rate." He trotted away, the buckle at the back of his waistcoat glinting in the sun. "Oh, and order us some of those Paris macarons if they've got them. You know the ones I mean."

"Yeah - the French ones." Alfred smirked at him. "I'm going to tell Francis."

"You'll go overboard," Arthur warned him, pausing at the door to glare at him. "I mean it."

He peeled himself around the doorframe, holding Alfred's gaze for as long as possible; when he was quite gone, Alfred at last turned on his heel and went to the other side of the lounge, exiting on the side which would take him the quickest route to the verandah cafe, known to some by its rarely-used, if official, name of the Palm Court. It was aptly named, at the very least: a breezy and well-lit area at the port side of the ship, adjacent to the First Class promenade deck, it captured the essence of a Parisian street cafe shaken up with a tropical getaway, flanked by the lush coolness of real palm trees. The chairs and tables were comfortable wicker and it was smaller and more intimate than the First Class lounge or smoking room. It was quiet, too, the novelty having worn off after _Lusitania_'s eight years in service: its counterpart on board _Titanic_, Gatti's Cafe Parisien, had constantly been heaving.

All in all, Alfred felt that he was getting to know his way around _Lusitania _pretty well by now - and admitted that he really quite liked some parts of her, at least more so than _Titanic_, which he had more or less written off as a bad memory. Sure, she wasn't as sparklingly new - nor as expensive - but her layout was so dissimilar inside as to not intimidate him and she was _lived in_, too, which made all the difference. Parts of her were a little worn down - the velvet on the staircase banisters balding a bit in places, the gold rims on the teacups rubbing away here and there, there was a large dent in the side of the bedside cabinet in their suite where someone had banged their suitcase against it. He liked that - because one of the worst things about _Titanic _had been her newness. She hadn't even made one crossing.

But _Lusitania _was safe - fast and reliable, she had been making the journey from Britain to America and back again for eight years. Though he was still a little nervous, after making her way through the icefields of the North Atlantic unscathed, she had won his trust and he was even enjoying himself a little bit. She was a nice ship, he had to admit. He'd sworn off _Olympic_, vowing never to travel on her, he just didn't put any faith in her or her design, identical to _Titanic_'s - but _Lusitania_, well, maybe he wouldn't mind travelling on her again to get home, she or one of her sisters, _Mauretania _and _Aquitania_.

He ordered; and Arthur soon joined him, almost blending in with the decor with his wheat-gold hair and emerald green waistcoat. The Afternoon Tea, a specialty, was a highly-English affair with Continental smatterings of French macarons and Italian coffee - overall, Arthur seemed to think it very Georgian and was satisfied with the array of nibbles between them: tiny sandwiches of cucumber, smoked salmon and pate, half-scones with fresh cream and a selection of jams, thin wedges of Victoria sponge and lemon drizzle cake and the promised macarons, pretty in their pastel colours on the highest tier of the cake stand. The tea was Earl Grey, fresh and floral on the tongue.

They ate and talked, Alfred telling Arthur about _A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court_, Arthur complaining freely and without censorship to Alfred about life in the godawful trenches at the Front; and for all Arthur's bitter words about gas and barbed wire and more rats than he'd seen since Drake's day, it was pleasant. The atmosphere, at least - and the company.

The thing was... that Alfred had noticed before that Arthur's eating habits seemed very familiar; they were almost identical to the ones he'd managed, after many months of battling his eating disorder, to break him of. His crutch had been cake more so than anything, Alfred presumed it was because it went so easily with tea and Arthur relied on tea as a remedy for many ailments like nerves, stress, tiredness and boredom. He had made habits of things like Afternoon Tea and Elevenses, at first only to fill up his static days, but by 1912 and _Titanic_, he had been dependent on them and they had been a very difficult habit to wean him from.

He hadn't wanted to think it before, trying to write off the (new) red notebook as something unrelated, something to do with the war; but watching Arthur now, the way he savoured the macarons and took very precise forkfuls of Victoria sponge, Alfred really couldn't help but think - to his horror - that Arthur had relapsed as a way of dealing with the war. Certainly he seemed far less tense with a ruffle-rimmed cake plate in his hand, gazing absently somewhere past Alfred's shoulder as he ate. He hadn't put on the weight again (quite the opposite, in fact, thinner than ever due to trench rations) and he seemed happy enough about eating in public, ordering from set menus rather than insisting on devising his own with his own precise calculations - but perhaps it was only a matter of time before their hard work was undone.

It was enough to make Alfred lose his own appetite, a sense of defeat overwhelming him; he played with a pale green macaron, taking it apart and using one half to scrape all of the ganache onto the other, making a veritable mountain of sugary cream, thinking that he might use some cake crumbs to make a smiley face out of it-

"If you're not going to eat it, give it to me," Arthur said, annoyed. "Don't play with it, you're not a child."

Alfred scowled, immediately becoming very protective of it; he didn't like macarons as much as Arthur did, for there had been six in total and Arthur had eaten four of them, but frankly he didn't feel like indulging him in a fifth and crammed the whole thing in his mouth.

"Ugh, you're a pig," Arthur said delicately, sipping his tea. "I can't take you anywhere."

Alfred couldn't answer, his jaw all but cemented together by macaron, but he rolled his eyes, thinking this a bit rich of Arthur, who was already making a move towards another half scone. Alfred swiftly pulled the cake stand out of his reach. When Arthur gave him a sharp look, he worked as fast as he could to swallow his massive mouthful, putting up a hand to indicate that he wanted to speak.

"Well, that's what you get for shoving an entire macaron in your gob," Arthur pointed out. "Be careful you don't choke."

"You've had enough," Alfred managed to get out, his throat sore from swallowing. "Don't you think?"

Arthur sighed, giving him a sidelong look of defeat.

"Yes, alright," he muttered. "I suppose I don't want to be getting back into my old ways..."

Alfred bit at his bottom lip, thinking it might be a bit late; but he said nothing, not wanting to upset him. It was enough, for now, that he had at least acknowledged the precipice.

A waiter came to clear the debris and offer more tea, which was refused; and they fell into silence, Arthur closing his eyes and enjoying the sun streaming in through the windows, dappling as it passed through the long fronds of the palm trees. Alfred stretched and settled back, too, his long legs draped over the wooden bar beneath their table. His shirt collar was open to the third button, his collarbone exposed, with his sleeves rolled to the elbows, and the polished warmth of the sun was pleasant on his bare skin.

At length, however, Arthur stirred with a yawn, sitting up; Alfred opened one eye to watch him take out his pocket watch, its etched gold lid flashing in the sunlight.

"It's no good my napping here," he grumbled, stretching. "I need to get some sleep if I'm going to be any good on the night watch." He looked at Alfred. "I'm heading back to the suite for a nap. Are you going to stay here?"

"No, I'll come too."

Arthur seemed a little surprised at this; but he nodded and they both rose, shaking off the tingling pleasantry of the cafe as they made their way out into the cool, bustling hallway. The elevator, an intricate weave of gold like a lady's locket, took them the short way to their suite, which Arthur locked behind them.

"There's no need for you to follow me." Arthur sounded half-amused as he went into the bedroom, Alfred absent-mindedly on his heel. "I'm only going to sleep for a few hours and I shouldn't like to bore you - I know my hours on this trip have been erratic."

"Sitting in the cafe made me all relaxed and sleepy," Alfred admitted. "I'm going to nap with you."

Undressing, Arthur paused, giving him an incredulous look.

"Truly?"

"Yeah." Alfred took his shirt down two more buttons and pulled it off over his head, tossing it over the chair. "What's wrong with that?"

"Nothing," Arthur said lightly, "though I suspect you of being overly affectionate."

"Ha, we'll see if you'e still saying that when my knee is embedded in the small of your back."

"Oh, goodness, yes," Arthur groaned. "I'd forgotten about that. The bed was much too small - but all the same, I woke up in bleeding spasms."

"The bed was too small," Alfred echoed innocently; he took off his glasses, stripped down to his underwear, and crawled under the cool sheets, settling. He watched as Arthur, a little blurry, carefully hung up his clothes and hooked his blue uniform over the wardrobe door. "Come _on_, Arthur."

"I don't know what you're so impatient about," Arthur sighed at him; but he came to the bed and slipped under. He too was down to his undergarments, which made a change, since he was so fond of his pyjamas.

Alfred couldn't help running his hands over his bare arms, feeling the warmth of his skin pulled over his bones; and, before Arthur could settle, he took hold of his elbows and rolled him on top.

"What are you doing?" Arthur sighed at him.

"This," Alfred replied; and he wrapped his arms around him and kissed him.

Arthur squirmed a bit, moving to fit more snugly against Alfred's body; and their bare legs tangled up together, Arthur's fingers slipping up into Alfred's hair. Alfred rocked his hips, pushing up, and Arthur pushed back against him-

"Nmn." Arthur pulled away. "No, you stop that. You're being very naughty. You know I need to sleep."

"But we haven't-"

"I know," Arthur sighed, rolling off determinedly, "but we'll have plenty of time for that once I'm on leave. We can spend whole days in bed if you'd like - but now I need to rest."

He turned onto his side, his back to Alfred, and seemed to settle. Alfred, not to be cowed, leaned forward to press a few kisses to his shoulders and the back of his neck, pausing to nip at the juncture of his shoulder-

"Settle down, Mr Jones," Arthur said sleepily, shaking him off; he reached back, taking Alfred's arm and pulling it over himself so that they were spooning. "Stop being a randy bastard, please."

Alfred merely exhaled through his nose against Arthur's skin, giving up. He was lathargic, it was true - but not really tired; and he didn't drift off as easily as he'd been expecting, instead lying half-awake cuddled up at Arthur's back. He intertwined their fingers and felt Arthur, almost asleep, squeeze them back contentedly.

_This _was Arthur Kirkland - not England, not merciless and bloodthirsty Great Britain - and if Alfred could have him only for now, for these few hours, then it would just have to do.

For these few hours, he could wrap himself around him and make everything go away.

* * *

"I just need to get my hat," Arthur said as he unlocked the suite door. "I won't be off until four o' clock so I'll see you in the morning, I expect."

"Okay," Alfred said. It was all he really _could _say to that. He flopped onto the soft fainting couch, sprawling out. "Don't worry about me, I guess I'll just read my book."

"Good lad." Arthur fetched his hat and put it on in the mirror over the fireplace. "Well, it was nice to eat dinner together, anyway, even if it was a tad early."

"Mmm." Alfred craned his neck to watch Arthur, who now crossed to the desk and opened the drawer, fishing around for something; he pulled out a sheet of paper, looked it over, folded it three times and slipped it into his pocket. He locked the drawer again and put the key just above the inkwell. "Is this your last night watch, Arty?"

"Yes, thank god." Arthur went briskly to the door. "I'm not on tomorrow night and we'll be in Liverpool on Friday."

"Then you can pull a different sort of all-nighter," Alfred said solemnly. "With me."

"Oh, give over." Arthur grinned at him, opening the door. "Right, I'll see you later. Sleep well, love."

Alfred raised his arm to give him an apathetic wave; Arthur shut the door with a _click _and he let his arm drop abruptly, sprawling even more determinedly across the couch. He felt lonely already.

He tipped his head right back to look, upside-down, at the desk. He wondered what Arthur was keeping locked in that drawer.

Maybe the red notebook.

He rolled off the fainting couch and pushed himself up, crossing to the desk, determined to satisfy his gnawing fear once and for all; those mad calculations of Arthur's, he only prayed they were nothing to do with food...

He unlocked the drawer and slid it open, finding it full of papers, including a huge blueprint of the _RMS Lusitania_'s superstructure and deck plans. This he didn't find strange, as Arthur was first and foremost a sailor and liked to have this sort of thing on hand - he'd had _Titanic_'s blueprints sitting on the coffee table on that ship, too. He rummaged around, finding bits and pieces which didn't make much sense to him - no doubt truncated Morse Code messages - until, buried at the back, he did find the notebook, the gloss of red leather gleaming at him. He pulled it out by its marker ribbon, flipping through it. It was just page after page of maths, with no indication of what the calculations might be for - although the numbers were massive, a departure from Arthur's petty calculations based on calories and servings on board _Titanic_. Alfred frowned, flicking through the pages in annoyance, until something jumped out at him.

Words.

It didn't give much away - all it said, in Arthur's sloppier, rushed hand, was:

_W. C'hill - Admiralty House. Order to ram._

There was a date underneath it but the ink was smudged where Arthur had moved his hand across it before it had dried. Frowning, Alfred dropped the notebook to the desk and started to rifle through the drawer again in search of more clues-

The door unlocked again and Alfred started, tearing his hands from the drawer; but he wasn't quick enough to hide the evidence, Arthur opening the door to find him standing like a spooked rabbit with nowhere to run.

Arthur looked at him.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

"I... I was, uh..." Alfred moved away from the drawer. "Just, um, you know... looking for something."

"You found it, I trust." Arthur's eyes went to the notebook, lying discarded on the desk. His face had gone white - something which happened only when he was truly furious.

"I... was just worried about you," Alfred began weakly. "You... you seem like you're _relapsing _and I-"

"I came back because I realised that I needed my notebook." Arthur's voice was hard as he crossed the room to the desk; he snatched up the notebook and slammed the drawer shut. "Thank you for sparing me the trouble of having to look through the drawer for it."

"Arthur-"

"No, truly, thank you." Arthur locked the drawer and put the key in his pocket. "Thank you for showing me that I can't trust you."

His voice was so wooden, so emotionless, that Alfred couldn't stand it; he'd braced himself for an explosion, the usual sort of rage Arthur flew into when he was angry, and this behaviour bewildered him. He could say nothing, only floundered confusedly, as Arthur walked away, heading to the door again. It was only as Arthur opened it, making to leave, that he found the strength to lurch forward, almost tripping over the couch.

"Arthur, _wait_, I only-"

"My name is England." He didn't even look at him. "Perhaps you'll call me by it. Goodnight."

He slammed the door behind him, leaving Alfred completely empty-handed.

* * *

Of course, Arthur/England being a massive fucking hypocrite is part of the fun. Anyone who knows anything about the _Lusitania _knows what I mean. -_- NOT that it excuses Alfred from being nosy when he's supposedly neutral - really, the USA's pacifist stance at this point of WWI makes this story more interesting than _1912 _in a lot of ways...

And really, I think the sinking of the _Lusitania _was worse than the sinking of the _Titanic _because at least _Titanic _was an accident. When you think of it in that respect, it's actually amazing that _Titanic _is so much more famous and has more interest than _Lusitania_.

Perhaps if James Cameron could be persuaded to blow his _Avatar _budget on a _Lusitania _film...

(Plenty of pictures of _Lusitania_'s gorgeous interiors over on my tumblr for anyone interested!)


	6. Thursday May 6th, 1915

Hello, everyone! I would just like to apologise for any horrendous mistakes in this chapter; I don't have Microsoft Word, I use Wordpad instead, which is fine but it doesn't have spellcheck so literally anything that I spell wrong, like mixing up letters, that I don't notice... pretty much goes unnoticed. Most inconvenient given that I'm so tired tonight that I've been making so many hideous typos it's making me cringe... :C

A huge thank you to: **Iggy Butt, Guest, PrincessSaphire1, Lamashtar Two, Xenia van Hausen, Spica-san Dee, chibitalex, IcarusWing, jagaimo-chan, chasingwhispers **and **foxymaloxy**!

I would also like to say - in response to a reviewer - that YES, of course I read all my reviews! I am very greatful for them and reading each and every one of them makes me smile so much! Quite often I like to reply to them individually but unfortunately I am on such a tight schedule with this fic, I have no free time to do so, since I have to spend every scrap of spare time writing the bloody thing... o.O

Thursday 6th May, 1915

Alfred did not sleep well.

After Arthur had stormed out of the suite, Alfred had honestly debated going after him; but he knew, really, that once Arthur vanished into the winding world of the crew many decks below, he'd have no hope of finding him.

He'd lain miserably on the fainting couch for a bit, too upset to truly contemplate Arthur's fury, before leaving the suite to distract himself in the smoking room for an hour or two. It had been quiet, most of the higher order only on their second course in the dining saloon, and he'd had a table in the corner all to himself until he was politely joined by a Canadian businessman - who provided ample distraction in their chattering about the advances of science and grainy silent movies.

Arthur had never been far from his thoughts, however, and he'd avoided the decks and promenades for fear of running into him on his rounds on his way back. Returning to the empty suite at about eleven o' clock, he'd moped around for a while, trying to read but finding himself unable to concentrate, and eventually he'd given up and gone to bed. His sleep had been fitful, however, and he'd woken more than once, his mind awhirl with the short, angry exhange between himself and Arthur hours before. He couldn't help but exhaustedly turn it over and over in his mind, trying to push it aside only for it to come capering back, wrapping itself tightly around his tired brain. He'd been in the wrong, perhaps - but his worry that Arthur had fallen back into the destructive pattern of his eating disorder would not leave him be.

He had had to fight the illness out of Arthur the first time; he wouldn't give up on him as easily as that.

At twenty minutes past four, Alfred was half-asleep, his head pounding, when he heard the suite door opening. He tensed in the darkness, wondering whether to feign sleep or sit up and confront Arthur now; Arthur would be tired, he reasoned, and likely not in the best of moods, but then he considered that things might be sourer still if he left it until daylight.

He sat up with the intent of being the first thing Arthur saw when he walked into the bedroom and turned on the light; but he waited and waited, blinking in the darkness, and the bedroom door did not open.

...Had he imagined it?

No. Wait. He could hear a bit of rustling next door now - and the sound of the key in the desk drawer turning. Growing determined, he felt for his glasses and put them on, near blinding himself with one of the arms, and scrambled out of bed, feeling his way to the door. He paused, taking a deep breath, before turning the handle and opening the bedroom door, shielding his eyes against the dim light from the glass dragonfly lamps either side of the desk.

Arthur was sprawled on the the fainting couch, eating an apple and more or less staring into space. He looked exhausted; though his expression changed to one of frosted haughtiness when he turned his head to look at Alfred, who was standing in the threshold in his underwear.

"It's past your bedtime," he said coldly, looking away again. He took another bite of his apple.

Alfred stepped forwards, his fists clenching.

"Arthur-" he began.

"I asked you not to call me that," Arthur interrupted nonchalantly. "Our so-called humans names are just sentimental things, after all. My name is England." He shrugged. "Or British Empire. Take your pick."

"You're wrong," Alfred said hotly. "You _are _Arthur - to me, at least. You're not just a country or an army; you're a person." He looked at Arthur intently. "You're... the person I love."

Arthur looked at him, unmoved.

"I am very angry with you," he said flatly. "Get out of my sight, won't you?"

"No, I won't." Alfred came to the couch. "A-and stop _eating_!"

Arthur gave him a petulant look.

"I've been on duty for eight hours," he said. "I'm _hungry_."

He brought the apple to his lips, about to sink his teeth into it once more; and Alfred lost his temper, snatching it from his hand and throwing it across the parlour. It hit the wall with a wet _thump _and rolled into a corner.

"Are you _quite finished_?" Arthur asked dangerously, clenching the open hand previously in possession of the fruit into a fist; he looked at Alfred in disgust.

"No, I'm not." Alfred seized Arthur by his tie, clambering onto the couch to get right in his face. "Listen, you total bastard - do you have any idea how fucking _worried _I am about you?!" He shook Arthur a bit. "_Do _you?!" He exhaled angrily. "Or do you just not give a damn?"

Arthur seemed insulted.

"Do you think I can't handle Ludwig?" he breathed. "The war is hard, certainly, but I assure you-"

"For god's sake, Arthur, not the fucking _war_!" Alfred looked at him in disbelief. "I mean your eating habits!"

Arthur simply rolled his eyes at him.

"Alfred, I haven't relapsed," he said frostily. "If indeed that _is _what you're talking about yet again."

Alfred let go of his tie, sitting back in defeat.

"I'm not sure I believe you," he said woodenly.

"I don't understand why you think I would lie." Arthur straightened his tie again. "You were the only thing that helped me the first time. If I needed help again, of course I would admit it to you. But I _haven't _relapsed, I promise. I've been eating the way I have because the trench rations are so bloody awful - I'd be a fool not to take advantage."

Alfred looked at him, taken aback; and Arthur met his gaze, his jade eyes hard.

"With that being said, I'm still furious with you," he went on. "Your worries aside, you had no business going through my things. You have compromised wartime confidentiality for the sake of a false belief."

"Arthur, I don't give a fuck about the war," Alfred groaned.

"I know," Arthur bit out. "You and Wilson have made that very clear."

"That's not what I-"

"I don't think there's any other way you _can _mean it," Arthur cut in mercilessly.

"There is." Alfred got up. "I mean that I care more about _you _than the damned war - even if you insist on throwing every scrap of concern I have for you back in my face."

He went back to the bedroom and shut the door behind him, not waiting for Arthur respond; and certain that all he'd get for his trouble was a catty remark of sorts anyhow. He flopped onto the bed and lay on top of the rumpled covers in the dark, the chill beginning to crawl over his bare skin.

He was relieved; for although he was still angry with Arthur for his behaviour, he did find himself believing his words. He didn't think that Arthur would lie about a relapse, not when confronted outright, especially given that he'd been fairly open with Alfred about his eating disorder in the first place. The calculations in the notebook had admittedly seemed off, too, the numbers far too large to be related to food.

All the same, Alfred was still upset with him; and he lay sulking for a while in the dark, waiting for Arthur to come to bed so that he could make a big show of still being upset with him.

The door did open eventually; but Arthur only leaned into the bedroom, the light spilling in behind his head.

"Oi," he said. "Come in here."

"No." Alfred rolled over.

"_Yes_," Arthur insisted. He paused. "...I want to show you something."

He vanished again, leaving the door wide open so that the light hung heavily in the bedroom; Alfred sighed and eased off the mattress again, snatching up Arthur's robe from the chair and throwing it on over his bare shoulders. He emerged into the parlour again, tentative and guarded, finding Arthur at the desk.

"What?" he asked moodily.

"Just come here," Arthur said impatiently; and Alfred did, though slowly, his bare feet silent on the carpet.

On the desk, _Lusitania'_s deck plans were spread out, the notebook open atop it.

"They're hypothetical safety calculations," Arthur said in a low voice, almost a growl. "We'll soon be entering the war zone - and whilst I don't think there be anything to worry about, if _Titanic _has taught us anything, it's that it's best to have measures prepared." He ran his finger along _Lusitania_'s profile. "The fact is that Thomas Andrews' design for the _Olympic _class was better regarding the watertight bulkheads - any four could be flooded without the danger of sinking. _Titanic_, of course, was unfortunate and five were breached; but _Lusitania_, conversely, can cope with only two being flooded before there is an inevitability of her sinking."

He gestured to the notebook.

"The greatest danger in the warzone around my land is torpedoing - these calculations are as approximate as I can possibly manage to the sinking times of _Lusitania _with every combination of two of more bulkheads being struck and flooded."

Alfred, who had gone rather pale at all this talk of torpedoing and sinking, cleared his throat nervously.

"And, uh, this is necessary because...?"

"It's just good to have the figures on hand," Arthur said absently. "It saves time in the event of just such an emergency. But it's not all bad news - I've also calculated the speed at which _Lusitania _would need to be travelling to successfully slice a U-boat in two."

He looked at Alfred.

"As I've said, however, there's nothing to worry about - whilst Cunard's design may fall short of White Star Line's, both _Lusitania _and _Mauretania _are fast enough to outrun a submarine. _Lusitania _can get up to almost twenty-seven knots. Using her gross tonnage, I was able to calculate her escaping a U-boat coming at her from just about every angle you can imagine."

"...I see." Alfred stepped back and sat on the curled end of the fainting couch, clasping his hands together. "So... it really _wasn't _cake calculations."

"No, it wasn't."

"Heh." Alfred gave him a watery smile. "I don't know what I'd have preferred."

Arthur shrugged.

"It's a harsh fact that the waters around my little island are infested with bloody submarines," he muttered. "But I maintain that we can't allow Ludwig deciding to set up shop in my shipping lanes to stop transatlantic travel and trade. He's as good as won otherwise."

"Hm." Alfred slid back, falling onto the couch, his knees hooked over the end; he watched Arthur go into his pocket and take out his cigarette case and a lighter. "...Didn't you blockade him?"

"He brought it on himself," Arthur said unfeelingly, lighting up; he offered the case to Alfred, who took one and caught the lighter after Arthur tossed it to him. "Anyway," Arthur went on, smoke curling around his words, "that's that. Nothing for _you _to worry about, you see."

He looked pointedly at Alfred.

"And if you so much as breathe a _word _about my showing you any of this to anyone - and I mean _anyone _- I will peel off your skin and wear it as a belt." His green eyes narrowed. "Do I make myself perfectly clear?"

Alfred simply nodded, cigarette pressed to his lips.

"Good." Arthur swept everything back into the drawer none-too-neatly, shut it and came to fling himself on the couch next to Alfred. "Because what I just did was tantamount to treason."

Alfred scrunched his nose.

"Is that even possible?" he asked. "You being... well, _you_."

"You'd think - but that didn't stop them lopping Charlie's head off." Arthur took a grateful drag on his cigarette. "It's a peculiar world we live in."

Alfred leaned in, resting his head on Arthur's shoulder; and they smoked in companionable silence for a while. Alfred could feel himself getting drowsy again, snuggling happily against Arthur, who in turn nuzzled against his hair.

"I'm glad we're friends again, Arty," Alfred murmured, drawing his long legs up beneath himself. "I hate when we fight."

"Hmm." Arthur sounded a little distant. "I thought were you being rather affectionate."

Alfred yawned.

"What's wrong with that?"

"Nothing." Arthur sighed. "...If only you were always so easy to win over."

* * *

Alfred rose late, having not gotten much sleep, and took lunch as his first meal of the day by himself; Arthur was still asleep and remained that way until around two in the afternoon. He had the day off, though he grumbled that it wasn't much use to him, his body clock having been pulled from pillar to post on both _Olympic _and _Lusitania_.

They shared a pleasant afternoon tea in the verandah cafe, akin to the day before, although Arthur forwent the macarons - as a true peace offering, Alfred felt, and in return he didn't chide him for a second helping of Victoria sponge, which he knew was his favourite.

After an animated game of chess in the First Class Lounge (ending in a begrudging stalemate) and a light, early dinner, they headed back to the suite to dress for the evening. This was not something that they had much bothered with past the first night, with Arthur often working and Alfred skirting around the edges of an old-money-society he wasn't much a fan of, but tonight was different:

The First Class Lounge was to be converted into a makeshift music hall for a concert, fundraising in the name of the Seamen's Charities. Alfred was surprised that Arthur wanted to go, since he didn't seem like much theatre that wasn't Shakespeare, Marlowe or Wilde, but Arthur, it seemed, approved of the charity itself and that was good enough for him.

Arthur slipped on his green waistcoat - Irish-influenced, it seemed, with lashings of delicate gold embroidery - beneath his jacket; whilst Alfred opted for his usual staple, a dark red one with glossy black buttons, under his own.

"I always did like that waistcoat on you," Arthur said, brushing past him. "It suits you."

"Thanks." Alfred grinned. "Yours kind of... blends in with you, what with your hair and eyes."

Arthur rolled his eyes.

"Absolutely the look I as going for." He offered Alfred his arm. "Come on, let's go and have a smoke on the deck before the concert."

"Great idea," Alfred admitted. "I could kill for one."

Arthur raised his thick eyebrows.

"...Good thing I've got plenty enough to lend you one, eh?"

The chill of the evening was beginning to settle up on deck, the dusk falling in like a chiffon curtain. Though they were still out in open waters, the colour was now the purplish-grey associated with the coast of Ireland, not the hard steely blue of the Atlantic. It made Alfred relieved to see it despite knowing about the U-boats lurking in wait like sharks.

They sat in a pair of deck chairs near to the First Class entrance, sheltered by the third funnel, and whiled away a few minutes with their cigarettes. Arthur had his eyes closed - still tired, Alfred presumed - but he was more alert, watching a few seabirds dart past through the smoke, before turning his attention to a few crew members, recognisable in their smart Cunard uniforms. There were two Royal Navy seamen with them, too, part of the same on-board escort as Arthur. The small group came to the davited lifeboat barely a few feet from where they were sitting, seeming to inspect it.

Alfred tensed; he reached over, shaking Arthur.

"What are they doing with that lifeboat?" he asked in a low voice.

"Hm?" Opening his eyes, Arthur watched the men for a moment, frowning. "Just testing, I expect."

They appeared, of course, to be doing a little bit more than testing' for when they were satisifed with it, three crew memers clambered upon the davits and began to work to swing the lifeboat out - as though it was ready to drop.

"Seriously." Alfred was growing very nervous, the back of his neck prickling. "Why are they lowering it?"

"They're not - look." Arthur nodded towards it. "They've just moved it out on its davit."

"Why?"

"Just a precaution," Arthur said. "_Titanic _was a hard lesson in what it means to be prepared. We'll soon be in the war zone. I expect Captain Turner is just because cautious."

The crew left the lifeboat swinging ever so slightly in the breeze, hanging like a cat's cradle, and moved on to the next a little way down; and, leaning forward and looking down towards the stern, Alfred could see now that they'd done the same with every single other lifeboat on the starboard side thus far.

"I don't like it, all the same," Alfred confessed.

"You wouldn't like it if we _weren't _taking any precautions either, I expect," Arthur sighed at him. "Come on, let's go in or we'll miss the concert."

He was rather forceful, in fact, in leading Alfred inside, apparently determined to take his mind off the lifeboats. As it happened, they were too late to get terribly good seats, for the audience was made up of a mingled set of First and Second class passengers; although Alfred spent much of the first few acts fidgeting with the programme he'd bought for ten cents, the proceeds of which went to the charity.

All in all, it wasn't a bad way to spend an evening, with variety ranging from sketches, songs and a Welsh choir; a Scottish comedian got laughs out of everyone except the Americans in his audience - Alfred included - who found that his jokes just didn't do anything for his sense of humour; and there was a rousing rendition of Irving Berlin's 'I Love a Piano', which everyone was only too happy to join in with: and quite a sight it was, too, all these men in their dinner suits and the women in glamorous beads and jewels and patterned silks, singing their hearts out to a popular ditty.

When the concert came to an end - to applause, naturally - a new face suddenly came to the stage. Next to Alfred, Arthur sat up very straight, his interest piqued: for the man was none other than William Turner, _RMS Lusitania_'s captain.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he said calmly, "thank you for attending the benefit concert in aid of the Seamen's Charities - and thank you to all those involved in the organising and performing of the entertainment. I don't like to be so solemn in its immediate aftermath - but I do have some announcements that I'd like to make when I have so many of you to attention."

Alfred looked uneasily at Arthur, who was bolt upright in his seat, listening intently.

"Firstly," Turner said, "I'd like to ask that, from now on, all passengers keep their smoking habit to the designated smoking rooms. The lights of cigarettes, cigars and matches on deck are, from this point on, prohibited due to their nature as pinpoints for submarines. In a similar manner, the skylights in all public rooms will be blacked out."

There was some murmuring amongst the crowd; Turner looked around at them all. Alfred reached into the gap between his seat and Arthur's and reached for his hand, grasping it nervously.

"I have no wish to cause alarm," Turner said, "and speak now only to inform you; ladies and gentlemen, as of now, the _Lusitania _is officially within the warzone."

* * *

_Lusitania_'s captain was indeed called **William Turner**! Sadly, _Mauretania _and _Aquitania _never had captains by the names of Jack Sparrow and Hector Barbossa...

The Seamen's Charities concert actually did happen on the Thursday night - and Turner chose to make his announcements there regarding smoking on deck, the blackouts of the stained glass skylights and domes scattered around the ship, etc, given that _Lusitania _had entered the warzone. Turner had recieved warnings from the Admiralty about nearby submarines on 6th May and took sensible precautions, such as swinging out the davited lifeboats to facilitate quicker launching if need be and closing the watertight bulkheads.

Despite Turner's efforts - and the lessons learnt from the _Titanic_'s sinking - the_ Lusitania _still sank, of course.

Tomorrow - May 7th - we shall explore how and why.


	7. Friday May 7th, 1915: I

Ughhhh, sorry about spamming your inboxes with all these update alerts and whatnot, I keep chopping and changing - but basically I deleted the original Ch 7, the half-chapter, and then reuploaded it with the full version; but looking at it today I can see that it's fucked up, some lines got run together and it's just a mess... I had some PMs about it, idk if everyone had the same problem with it, it was like some of the lines were on top of each other?!

SO I'm going to put it back the way it was. I don't like cutting the sinking in half but it's better than it being unreadable. o.O This is SO WEIRD, _1912_ had loads of problems with it as well... I should really stop writing about sinking transatlantic liners...

Thank you to: **Guest, Lamashtar Two, Xenia van Hausen, Teenage Mouse, Iggy Butt, **another **Guest, muSHIii **and **Tamitan**!

Friday 7th May, 1915

I/II

"Are you sure I'm allowed to be up here?"

Arthur shrugged, shooting him a bored look.

"I have one of the highest ranks on this ship," he said blandly. "I'll bring you up to the bridge if I want."

"Well, sure," Alfred said, "but I don't want you to get into trouble..."

"I don't think it matters much at this point," Arthur reasoned. "We're almost to the Irish Coast."

This was true; it was within sight, in fact, a welcome view to Alfred, who hadn't had the nerve to watch New York fade into the distance. They were off the Old Head of Kinsale - near Queenstown, which Alfred hadn't seen since its being _Titanic_'s very last port. They were still in the warzone, of course, these waters no longer a homeland's calm kiss goodbye, but Alfred did feel significantly better for seeing Ireland so close at hand.

A lower-ranked officer approached with a tray, on which perched two tinkling cups; tea for Arthur, coffee for Alfred. Arthur thanked the officer as they took their beverages, heading off Alfred's quip about perks with a meaningful glare.

"We're still monitoring the situation, Commodore," the officer said, taking Arthur's attention back.

Arthur nodded.

"Which side? I'll take a look."

"Off starboard, sir."

"Very well." Balancing his teacup one-handed, Arthur reached to unhook the binoculars from their stand. "Come on, Alfred. Let's go up on deck."

He was already away, brisk-paced, and Alfred didn't have much choice but to follow, carefully with his coffee as he made his way up the narrow staircase to the rounded front of the navigation bridge's vantage point. From here, one had a clear view of _Lusitania _right down to the very tip of her bow.

It was a beautiful day, bright and breezy with the sea a calm, jewelled blue; and a great many passengers stood at the rails on A Deck, pointing out Ireland's ever-growing closeness. _Lusitania _plunged forwards with her usual nimbleness, ploughing aside the waters as she raced for safety.

"Hold this, will you?" Arthur handed Alfred his saucer, teacup jingling atop it, and leaned forward over the rail, adusting the binoculars.

"What is it?" Alfred had a sinking feeling he already knew. "...Is it a submarine?"

"Yes." Arthur frowned. "_U-20_. The Admiralty has been monitoring it for days. I can't see it, though. I expect it's retreated. I shouldn't think it would fancy its chances against _Lusitania_, not at this speed."

"O-oh." Alfred took a nervous sip of his coffee, his relief at seeing Ireland fast unravelling at the knowledge that a U-boat was lurking around in these same waters. "...Well, if you're sure..."

"I'm sure that a U-boat should think twice about torpedoing us," Arthur said shortly, straightening; he slung the binoculars over his shoulder. "_U-20 _has been circling - if it gets in _Lusitania_'s way whilst attempting to torperdo her, she'll cut it in two or crush it. I don't think it's a risk they'll take, frankly."

"And what if they _don't _get in _Lusitania_'s way?" Alfred pressed. "What then?"

Arthur didn't answer, taking his teacup back and sipping at his tea.

"_Arthur_!" Alfred hissed.

"Will you _please _be calm?" Arthur sighed at him. "We're doing everything we can to keep _Lusitania _safe. This was always going to be a risk, getting through the warzone - you knew that from the start. But _Lusitania _is a neutral passenger ship carrying innocent travellers. You must realise that she has that in her favour."

"I'm sorry, I'm just..." Alfred sighed, gripping at his teacup. "...Just nervous, I can't help it."

"I know." Arthur looked at him. "And you've done so well, love. I know all this can't have been easy for you - but we're almost there. Be calm, be patient, and soon you'll have your feet on dry land again."

Alfred took a breath, nodding. Arthur gave him an encouraging smile.

Given that they were to be docking in Liverpool that evening, Arthur was back in his white Commodore's uniform, high black collar starched against his jawline and with the gold braiding looped at his shoulder banging against his chest in the breeze. Incidentally, Alfred understood why Arthur had brought him on duty with him this afternoon (not allowed since Alfred had been small enough for Arthur to sneak on under his coat); it was that he didn't want him fretting alone, driving himself into a panic, at being in the warzone. He didn't know if it was _nice _of him, as such, given that this excercise wasn't doing his nerves much good either, but he appreciated the gesture. All things aside, Arthur was gold-hearted; if not always gold-tongued.

They went down to A Deck, Arthur on the pretence of doing his rounds, although Alfred knew that the sight of land sighing closer to a ship was one of his delights and that he wanted to bask in it. They were on the starboard side, sandwiched between a young family and a man with a box brownie set up on deck, waiting for the moment when Ireland would come close enough for the sun to blaze gold over her green shores. Alfred folded his arms on the rail and rested his chin on them, the sunlight warm on the back of his neck; contented, he nudged against Arthur, who rubbed fondly at his hair.

"Got any recommendations for where we can eat tonight?" Alfred asked. "Somewhere quiet would be nice."

Arthur gave a snort.

"In Liverpool? You've a fat chance of that."

"Well... somewhere _good_, at least," Alfred relented. "Is that too much to ask?"

"No, I suppose I can..." Arthur trailed off, stiffening suddenly at Alfred's side.

"What?" Alfred opened one eye to look at him. "Arthur?"

Arthur snatched up his binoculars again; and, after a moment, he swore loudly, having little care for the child standing on the railings not three feet away.

"_What_?!" Alfred straightened, starting to panic. "What did you see?!"

But he already knew; and, seconds later, the voice of the lookout blared overhead, tinny with distortion from the megaphone:

"_Torpedoes coming on the starboard side_!"

"Get back!" Arthur seized Alfred by his arm and hauled him away from the rail just as the torpedo struck _Lusitania_'s hull.

Her metal gave a shriek and there was a blast of water and debris, which sluiced upwards like a blade as she trembled violently. There were screams and shouts right throughout the ship, people being thrown from their feet, china crashing from its cabinets, glasses overturning, lifeboats bouncing on their davits.

Arthur lost his teacup, the delicate porcelain smashing on the deck as he stumbled into Alfred; they both ended up on the deck, Alfred landing heavily, painfully, on his elbow. The _Lusitania _rocked violently, leaning forwards before pitching back again; and then there was another explosion, far bigger than the first. It boomed out of _Lusitania_'s side like harvest seeds from their pod, violent and ripe; a vast plume of black smoke came with it, belching up over her decks and ungulfing her entire midsection. The blast sent a shower of twisted metal and burst rivets out into the sea as _Lusitania _shuddered right through to her very core for several, dreadful long moments. Stunned, flung flat to the deck, Alfred rode it out with clenched eyes, feeling Arthur's weight on top of him.

At long last - it seemed - she stopped, falling still. Arthur wasted no time in scrambling up, hauling Alfred with him by the back of his collar.

"God damn it," he cursed, "I don't think they'd be so fucking _stupid_...!"

He threw his binoculars aside and seized Alfred by the wrist, dragging him behind him as he ran for the stairs to the navigation bridge; Alfred didn't protest, too shocked to even speak.

The navigation birdge was aflurry with officers, both Cunard and Royal Navy; Captain Turner was amongst them, handing out orders to his men. Still clutching Alfred, Arthur fought his way amongst them.

"Two torpedoes?" he asked breathlessly.

"It looks that way," the Second Officer replied. "I don't know how much time we have."

"Not long." Arthur shook his head in despair. "That second explosion must have taken out at least four bulkheads - the damage, I suspect, is far greater than _Titanic_'s." His face was grim. "I don't think we have two and a half hours, gentlemen."

"Lifeboats, Commodore." Captain Turner was suddenly at Arthur's side. "Help to fill the davited ones the starboard side. I've sent some of the men on ahead to start with passengers already on A Deck. Herd people up from B Deck and lower if you can."

"Captain." Arthur saluted his affirmation and hurried from the navigation bridge, hustling Alfred with him.

Setting foot on A Deck again, however, and it was clear that _Lusitania _was leaning badly towards her damaged side, tilting the deck.

"Stay here," Arthur ordered, pushing Alfred aside, well out of the way of terrified passangers scrabbling by, barely able to keep an even footing. "Just a minute or so, alright? I'll be back in a moment."

He started away; but Alfred suddenly reached and grabbed him, holding on tight.

"Alfred, please!" Arthur impatiently attempted to wrestle himself free. "This is not the time to-"

"Is this really happening?" Alfred tightened his grip on Arthur. "I'm imagining this, right? I _must _be imagining it."

"Stay here," Arthur replied, quieter, more urgent. He touched Alfred's face quickly, patting his cheek. "Good lad, just-"

"Are we sinking?" Alfred asked. His breathing began to constrict tighter and tighter as he started to panic. "Is... is _Lusitania _fucking _sinking_?"

"It looks that way, I'm afraid." Arthur pulled himself free. "Wait here. I'll be back shortly to put you in a lifeboat."

He pushed into the panicked crowd, leaving Alfred backed against the stairwell of the navigation bridge. Alfred sank against the wall for a moment, silent, in utter shock - for although he had feared _Lusitania_'s being torpedoed, in many ways he supposed he hadn't expected it to actually _happen_. It seemed too extrordinary, too unfortunate, far too much of a fluke, for the very next four-funnelled liner he set foot on to go the same way as the first.

He stood up on the bottom step to take a tentative look down the deck. Already he could see crowds of panicked people clustering around the davited lifeboats - and that the waterline on the ship's starboard side seemed alarmingly close to her forecastle.

No. This was happening. _RMS Lusitania_, just like _Titanic _before her, was sinking.

He fled after Arthur, pushed close to the wall by the ship's unnatural tilt, and fought his way through the surges of people coming the other way as he descended the staircase to B Deck. He couldn't stay up there a moment longer, not by himself, watching that scene unfold itself again before him, the sobbing families and the rising water-

He found Arthur with another officer on the First Class promenade deck; between them they had a pile of cork lifebelts - exactly like _Titanic'_s - and were trying to foist them onto fleeing passengers, many of whom were simply in too much of rush to take one.

"Stay on this side of the ship!" Arthur called over the rabble of the fleeing First and Second Class. "Proceed to the lifeboats on A Deck! There are plenty of boats for everyone!"

The other officer was repeating much the same message when Alfred came between them; Arthur looked surprised to see him.

"I told you-" he began.

"I know," Alfred interrupted breathlessly, "but I can't... can't stay up there by myself. I want to help, anything, just-"

"Well, you can help by putting one of these on and setting a good example." Arthur thrust a lifebelt at him; he turned to the other officer as Alfred slipped the lifebelt on over his head. "I'm going to head down to the dining saloons on D Deck - I expect there's a lot of confusion down there."

The other officer nodded.

"Right, I'll handle things here, Commodore."

Arthur beckoned to Alfred, snatching up a lifebelt for himself by its ties.

"You come with me," he said, "where I can keep an eye on you."

By now it was getting hard to walk, gravity hindering their every step as _Lusitania_'s list grew worse. Arthur grumbled to himself about it, tying his lifebelt around his waist as he and Alfred scrambled down the staircase towards the First Class dining saloon.

"Bloody shoddy design, that's what it is," he muttered. "I'll say this for _Titanic _- she was very stable until she tore in half."

Alfred said nothing to this, preferring not to be reminded of the fact that the world's largest ship had ripped into two pieces whilst sinking at a time like this; he was tight-lipped and terrified as they sprinted past stragglers to the dining saloon.

There was a bit of a crowd in here, people milling about in confusion looking for loved ones and possesions even as tables slid to one side and crockery tumbled from their place settings. It was rather dark, which didn't help matters, for the glass dome had been blacked out the night before and instead the saloon was lit with only the electric lamps, usually reserved for evening dining. These were flickering rather badly.

"We have been torpedoed by a German U-boat!" Arthur had no pretence about him at this point; he shouted it at the passengers, not caring to mince his words. "_Lusitania _is sinking. Please proceed to A Deck immediately to be put into lifeboats. Lifebelts are available on B Deck and A Deck."

There was some flurry at this, with some passengers making an immediate beeline for the exit; but others seemed more bewildered than ever.

Alfred looked hopelessly at them; it seemed ludicrous but the procedure aboard _Titanic _had seemed to work better. For the most part, passengers had gone up on deck - it had been clear that the only way off had been in the too-few lifeboats. This, conversely, was utter chaos.

"We haven't time for this," Arthur groaned. "With a list this bad, I don't think she's going last half an hour." He beckoned to Alfred. "Come on, let's get to Second and Third Class. This lot'll get some sense through their heads when the water starts pouring in."

"I don't understand how you can be so callous," Alfred whispered miserably as they crossed the room.

"I think you forget just how many ships I've had sink from under me," Arthur retorted.

Alfred opened his mouth to reply; cut off as _Lusitania _gave an almighty groan. She heaved, rolling violently to one side, Alfred grabbing onto one of the plaster pillars to keep his balance, Arthur in turn hanging onto him.

Alfred looked up, his chest thundering in terror, as the lights flashed once, twice, and then failed completely, plunging the entire heart of the _Lusitania _in utter darkness.

* * *

If all this seems like it's happening very quickly... that's because it _did _happen very quickly. The _Lusitania _sank in just eighteen minutes; the torpedo was fired at 14:10pm and her electrics failed just four minutes later at 14:14pm. She also listed very badly to her damaged side, up to fifteen degrees, making her flood quicker. Comparatively, _Titanic'_s newer design meant that she had very little list (only nine degrees) despite being damaged on only one side; her electrics also kept working until the last twenty minutes. It's amazing the difference the few years between _Lusitania _and _Titanic _made: it sounds ironic, in fact, to say it given the notoriety of the disaster, but _Titanic _**was **actually a very safe ship design-wise. Had she had enough lifeboats... who knows! Perhaps nobody would even know her name.

RIGHT. ON TO PART II. FINGERS CROSSED. O.o


	8. Friday May 7th, 1915: II

PART II OF THE SINKING. UGHHHH. PLEASE DON'T SCREW UP THIS TIME, FFNET.

...I just realised that I should have put the note about why I reuploaded the chapter in two parts on THIS chapter, not Ch 7 - because this is the one with the new alert. OMFG. WELL, BASICALLY, FFNet screwed up the reupload containing the whole chapter, as least for some people, it seems (me included!), so I put it back into two. I'm really sorry for any confusion this has caused regarding alerts and whatnot.

Thank you to: **Krytical, Lamashtar Two, Chairisse, Xenia van Hausen, gracezilla, Spica-san Dee,** another **Guest **and** IcarusWing**!

Btw, unrelated (sort of), but to respond to that final Guest's review: No, no, the woman who survived all three _Olympic_-class incidents was a real person! Her name was Violet Jessop and she was a stewardess on _Olympic _during the collision with _HMS Hawke_, a stewardess again on _Titanic _(she was put into a lifeboat holding a baby) and a nurse on _Britannic _when she struck a mine off Greece in 1916 (_Britannic _hit a mine, of course, not Violet!).

Friday 7th May, 1915

II/II

He couldn't see his hand in front of his face.

Barely able to keep his footing, clinging to the pillar with all of his strength, Alfred fought to rein in the panic welling up inside him, frothing up from the pit of his belly and clutching at his heart, squeezing the very breath right out of his lungs. He was so frightened that he could feel himself beginning to hyperventilate, burying his head to block out the shrieks and wails clawing their way out of the darkness over the groaning of _Lusitania_ as the severe list tore on her superstructure, making her buckle.

Arthur rustled next to him, righting himself; Alfred felt for him, finding the braiding at his shoulder and closing his fist around it.

"_Arthur_," he whispered, choking on his own voice.

"Wait a moment, love." Arthur came closer and there was a little _snap_; and suddenly a tiny burst of light between them, Arthur's hands cupped around his lighter. "There."

Alfred looked at him, swallowing around a gulp of breath; the small flame gave off only a small halo of light, just enough to light Arthur's wheat-blonde hair and make the gold detail on his collar glitter.

"We'll never find our way out with that," Alfred groaned; and, indeed, it, did seem impossible, for the First Class saloon was so high and cavernous, plunged into the black of night with only Arthur's lighter at its centre like a dwarf sun.

"For god's sake, boy, anyone would think you weren't raised in the eighteenth century," Arthur replied incredulously. "Find a bloody candle!"

Other passengers, having seen the lighter's glow, followed suit, gentlemen out-turning their jacket pockets for lighters and matches; the room was soon lit by four or five other pinpricks, which moved about the saloon like erratic stars. Alfred gingerly let go of the pillar to help Arthur feel on the floor for a candle knocked from one of the tables in the collision, his fingers finding the cool blades of butter knives and prongs of forks aplenty, not to mention bread rolls and upturned plates and shattered glasses. _Lusitania _shook beneath them, which came accompanied with the screams of a few women and the sobbing of a child, and Alfred gave a hiss of pain as his hand slipped over the ragged edge of a broken plate.

"Are you alright?" Arthur turned the lighter on him.

"Y-yeah, just cut myself, it's fine..."

Arthur nodded; and then lowered the lighter suddenly to Alfred's knee, a glint of metal having caught his attention.

"Alfred, look there! Grab it!"

It was a three-pronged candlestick; one candle was missing but the other two were still intact, and Alfred snatched it up with his bloodied hand before it slid out of his reach. They were large candles, meant for the purpose of lighting the saloon at night, and Arthur swiftly leaned in and lit both wicks, casting out a larger, brighter circle of light.

"That'll do." Arthur flicked his lighter shut and put it back in his pocket. "Come on, let's get out of here."

He stood up, taking Alfred's hand, and they steadied themselves for a moment against the tilt of the room. The overturned tables were on the move again, sliding against the far wall like a blockade. The rest of the passengers were scrambling for the door now, the darkness urging them towards safety, although there was no order about it, with people pushing and shoving and knocking each other over in their bid to follow the few bursts of light. A few people near Alfred and Arthur clustered behind them to follow their light as they made for the door, Alfred almost dropping the candlestick when his legs tangled about an upturned chair and he stumbled; Arthur righted him, saving the candles and heaving him along.

"Come on," he urged, "almost there..."

Alfred nodded, clutching tighter at Arthur's hand as they joined the crush at the door; Arthur held the candlestick overhead, falling behind Alfred with a hand at the small of his back to push him along. They spilled out into the hallway, jostling through the crowd, Arthur calling for people to head towards the staircase, to follow his light; though it went mostly unheard, his orders lost to the wails and shrieks as people panicked in the darkness. Alfred hung on to Arthur's arm, feeling as lost and bewildered as a child - with only Arthur's touch to calm him, to make him feel that somehow, even though they were trapped below deck in the dark, it would be alright.

"Up, up!" Arthur urged Alfred to the stairs; they were tilted towards starboard and Alfred had to make use of the wall to hold his footing as he clambered up the first step. He went no further, however, holding Arthur's hand as the older man paused to help a few ladies straggling behind them up, too. "Alfred, take the the candles."

He passed it over and Alfred held it aloft from his higher position, lighting the way for those struggling past; a lady grabbed at his necktie as she fell and Alfred let go of Arthur's hand to grasp her around the waist, setting her right again.

"Thank you, sir, thank you," she said breathlessly, scrambling past.

Alfred simply nodding, his heart thumping as he turned back to locate Arthur.

"Arthur!"

"I'm here, love." Arthur was at his side; he cast his green eyes towards the darkened stairwell as _Lusitania _gave an agonised groan, trembling. "Come, we've haven't time to waste."

They brought up the rear, forced to leave behind those who wouldn't come. The climb was difficult, as by now they were walking on two surfaces, one foot on the wall, and they had to make use of the banisters to keep their balance. _Lusitania _was rocking dangerously beneath them and it felt to Alfred that she was almost on the verge of rolling onto her side.

The light from A Deck now crept around the corner, a faint white glow in the distance; and with it the metallic sound of rushing water. Screams came from up ahead and suddenly it was clear why: water had started to pour into the staircase, shallow and cold, plunging down the steps. People were thrown into a panic, many stopping completely and blocking the staircase, others trying to turn back - though where they were headed, Alfred had no idea.

"Everybody keep moving!" Arthur shouted, pushing at them from the back. "The only safety is on deck!"

He was ignored again as the water swelled, bursting through the crowd, sweeping some right off their feet and tumbling some way down the staircase again. Alfred seized onto the velvet banister as the frigid water rushed over his knees - and was only just quick enough to grab Arthur by the wrist as he was knocked over by panicked passengers backing up away from the incoming sea. The candlestick was thrown from Arthur's hand and plunged into the water, swept away back into the ship's belly, though Alfred cared nothing for even the loss of light as he pulled Arthur against him.

Arthur, however, twisted from Alfred's grasp, forcing his way up through the cluster of people; he reached back and pulled Alfred with him, fighting the water up the last few steps and breaking free from the crowd. They emerged into the main companionway, flooding on one side as _Lusitania _tilted ever more to starboard. People flurried to and fro, the water splashing as they tried to outrun it, ladies hitching up their skirts and children clutched in the arms of parents and nurses.

Alfred immediately started for the port side, away from the water, even though it was at a steep angle; Arthur pulled him back.

"No, Alfred, this way." He tugged him towards the listing starboard side, wading deeper into the water. "Come on, this is the only way off!"

But Alfred resisted, the panic rising within him again as Arthur tried to drag him towards the flooding side of the ship; it seemed madness to him to go towards the water.

"_Alfred_!" Arthur hauled urgently at him. "Come _on _- before it's too late!"

"No!" Alfred stopped dead, refusing to go any further; the water was getting to their waists. "No, Arthur... please, I can't!"

"Alfred." Arthur took his shoulders firmly. "Listen to me. At this angle, it'll be impossible to launch the port-side lifeboats. The starboard side is your only hope of getting off this ship."

"I-I'm not going without you!" Alfred cried; for this was the first he'd heard, or so it seemed, that he'd be disembarking alone. He clutched Arthur's wrists. "You said _Lusitania _had enough lifeboats for everyone!"

"She does," Arthur said grimly, "but she's going down too quickly and at too steep an angle. We won't get them all launched before she goes down."

"Th-then I'll stay with you!" Alfred was shaking as he said it. "Arty, please, I-"

"No, I need you in one of the boats," Arthur said briskly. "To help man the oars. I need someone who is strong and who knows how to row."

"Why can't _you_ do that?!"

"Alfred, this isn't _Titanic_." Arthur looked at him tiredly. "This time... I really _do _need to stay." He leaned in quickly, briefly, and pressed a fierce kiss to Alfred's forehead. "Now please... just trust me."

Alfred simply looked at him. He said nothing - for he had nothing to say - and Arthur seemed to understand; he gave a grave nod and let go of Alfred's shoulders, taking his hand again. He pulled; and Alfred went with him, holding his breath as they waded through the rising water sluicing through the companionway.

They emerged on the boat deck, swarming with hundreds of panicked passengers fighting to get to the lifeboats further down. _Lusitania_'s bow was completely submerged, as was half of her starboard side, right up past the entrance to the companionway. There was a lot of smoke, her funnels blazing and creaking under the massive strain; and the water around the stricken liner was already littered with dozens of swimmers, not to mention all manner of debris. Two lifeboats bobbed nearby, about half-filled, and another was overturned with several people clinging to it; there was a lot of splintered wood in the same painted white, the remains of boats that had been crushed in the confusion of launching.

"Hurry, Alfred." Arthur pulled him up the deck, scrambling out of the rising water against the heightening angle as _Lusitania_, just like _Titanic_, began to show her stern. "She hasn't got long left."

Arthur cut through the crowd pushing and shoving at Lifeboat 16, the loading of which was less than orderly. Another officer and a young seaman, no more than eighteen, were attempting to control the mob; but their orders for women and children were ignored as people tried to surge past into the swinging lifeboat.

"Commodore!" The officer seemed relieved to see Arthur. "It's bedlam up here, sir."

"I can see that." Arthur looked at the officer. "Right, you and I are going to launch this boat." He called to the young seaman in his crooked Cunard cap. "I assume you can row, boy?"

"Yes, sir!" The young man saluted him.

"Right, get in." Arthur looked at Alfred. "You too. You're both in charge of rowing."

The seaman nodded, stepping into the lifeboat, which was already half full with scrambling passengers.

"Alfred." Arthur pushed at Alfred's back. "Get _in_."

Alfred looked at him, agonised.

"I can't go without you!" he said breathlessly. "Arthur, I _can't_!"

"I'll be alright," Arthur promised; he took Alfred's hands between his own. "You know that. Please, just get in the lifeboat."

"But-"

_Lusitania _gave a sudden lurch, water sloshing up over her deck; and the lifeboat swung inwards, hitting her iron side with a heavy thud, making its occupants shriek.

"_Get in_." Arthur kissed Alfred's fingertips reassuringly before urging him forcefully towards the boat. "I'll see you shortly, you have my word."

Alfred found himself stepping backwards into the quivering boat, cornered into it; Arthur let go of his hands and stepped up onto the davit, well out of his reach, and Alfred sank onto the middle bench of the boat, taking hold of the oar. He looked up at Arthur the entire time, watching as he and the officer managed to wrestle some form of order and get the boat filled, even though it was swinging dangerously, thudding against _Lusitania_'s side. It felt, in fact, like it was beginning to tip-

"Lower away!" the officer called, giving the signal; and he and Arthur were joined by another crewman to start lowering the ropes, easing the shaking lifeboat towards the rising sea.

Over the noise and the chaos, Alfred couldn't hear Arthur when he shouted something to the new officer; but suddenly he leapt down from the davit, perhaps to go and help load another lifeboat, and Alfred lost sight of him completely. Panic spiked in him then, and he desperately searched the tilting deck for a flash of white and gold amongst the crowd, clutching the oar with white hands-

The lifeboat tilted suddenly and completely overturned, twisting on its ropes, far too quickly for anyone to have done a thing to prevent it. Every last passenger it had been carrying plunged into the sea, Alfred still clinging to the oar. He went under a little way, the cold water knocking the breath from his lungs, before the lifebelt's bouyancy pulled him to the surface again; he broke it, gasping, realising that he'd lost his glasses as he shook the hair out of his eyes and looked up to see the lifeboat swinging a few feet above from its rope. It had the characteristic blurriness of first-thing-in the-morning, before he'd reached for the nightstand and put on his glasses, and it made this seem surreal, as though he'd just woken from a nightmare that still clung to his senses.

"Get away!" The young seaman, who had surfaced near him, was shouting to the previous occupants of the lifeboat. "It's going to drop!"

Alfred took his word for it, seeing how dangerously close it was swaying, and kicked off, swimming blindly away for a few moments; a wave of water washed over his back, pushing him under for a second, and when he surfaced and looked back, he saw that the lifeboat had snapped its cable and hit the water, where it half-filled and then capsized even as people swam to clutch at its ridged underside.

Shivering, Alfred grabbed onto a passing deckchair, which wasn't much of a floatation device with his weight on it, and it bobbed just beneath the waterline as he clung to it and looked up at _Lusitania_. She was so huge that he didn't need his glasses to see her plight, watching in terror as a scene all-too-familiar unfolded before him: _Lusitania_'s stern had risen well into the air by now, her propellers in clear view against the blue sky, and it was clear to see the terrible angle which had made escaping her innards so difficult. By now she was roaring, the water engulfing her as she bowed to meet it, almost entirely on her starboard side. Her angle was shallower than _Titanic_'s and it didn't look as though she would break - not that that made a blind bit of difference was she was sinking in a manner all the more monstrous for its being in daylight. _Titanic _had at least had the decency to cloak her demise in darkness.

There was an explosion somewhere deep inside her, an echoing rattle like a Civil War cannon backfiring, and her third funnel collapsed, ripping from its mooring to tumble into the sea; smoke poured from the gash left behind and she swallowed up seawater through it, vanishing ever faster beneath the water. In the midst of swimmers thrashing around him, wailing and screaming for help, Alfred had eyes only for her, watching in stunned horror as she sank - just as he had feared she might on seeing her docked in New York Harbor.

How like _Titanic _she had looked then - and how like _Titanic _she looked now.

She had no pretence about her, however; _Titanic_, it seemed, had waited and waited, even pausing bolt upright like a sea monster before foundering completely. _Lusitania_, conversely, had no time to waste - fitting, perhaps, given that she had been so much faster than _Titanic _at sea. Lifeboats tumbled from her, passengers jumped the short distance, deckchairs and collapsible boats floated off; seeing her from this side, Alfred was at least spared watching _Lusitania Liverpool _be swallowed up as she vanished. The smoke still hung in the air where she had been not moments before.

Despite the massive damage done to her, Alfred was still shocked by how quickly she had sunk; now, in the aftermath, with just those who had gotten off for company in the vast waters, he still couldn't help but feel that this was another of his horrible nightmares, too surreal to be true. Surely, _surely_, a modern liner as big as _Lusitania _couldn't have foundered in less than twenty minutes...?

He wished Arthur was with him. He felt scared and lost without him, having at least had his hand to hold after _Titanic_.

He swallowed, his breath coming in short gasps; the water was freezing and he was glad of the lifebelt, his body feeling numb already. Looking around - though he couldn't see much - he didn't expect to find Arthur within the mass of swimmers, at least not right away, there were far too many of them. He assumed Arthur had jumped at the last second like so many others.

A piece of wall - wooden panelling he recognised from A Deck - floated past, a man in a suit clinging to it. He beckoned to Alfred, who let go of his deckchair and swam towards it, hanging on.

"Bit of luck, this," the man said, nodding to him; he was a Londoner, Alfred recognised his accent. "I found it next to me when I jumped off. I think there's room for more."

Alfred simply swallowed and nodded his thanks; he couldn't find it in him to speak.

They were joined by several others in the immediate vicinity, a mixed gaggle of all classes, men and women, all clinging to their makeshift lifeline. There was not much talking between them, everyone more or less in shock; Alfred laid his head on the wet wood and closed his eyes, the cold water taking all the strength out of him as his body shivered uncontrollably.

The sun was warm on his hair but he was a long way from the verandah cafe now.

* * *

Alfred was almost unconcious by the time he was pulled into one of the collapsible lifeboats, which had floated off unoccupied and had been commandeered by two of _Lusitania_'s crew, who had jumped from the ship moments before. They, like several other collapsibles, had picked up people afterwards, coming to the broken panelling and taking in its nine occupants. Two others, like Alfred, were barely awake and a third, a Second Class woman, had succumbed to the cold.

Alfred huddled in his wet clothes in the far end of the boat, sharing a blanket with two Canadians. The waters were beginning to quieten, just as they had after _Titanic_; for this was the Atlantic and it could not be endured by most for long.

He wondered where Arthur was. Once or twice he peered over the side of the collapsible - but he didn't see Arthur in the water, nor did he spot him in any of the other circling lifeboats that they passed.

He had expected rescue far quicker, given that the coast of Ireland was within sight, but it took several hours before a ragtag cluster of small boats, many of them fishing vessels, arrived to take in survivors. None of them had the majesty of the _Carpathia _steaming out of the mist, having raced all night to _Titanic_'s aid, but there was immense relief to see them all the same.

Dusk was beginning to draw in by the time they reached Queenstown. Stepping off in his stiff, salt-crusted clothes, still clutching the blanket, Alfred was immediately accosted by a group of American representatives and officials, who pulled him aside and fretted over him.

"Come on, let's get you cleaned up," one, a Mr Blakely, said, taking him through the crowd towards the car. "Can you see well enough?"

Alfred nodded. He hadn't said a word since watching _Lusitania _vanish beneath the Atlantic.

"We have spare glasses for you at the embassy," another said briskly, falling into step alongside him. "But I daresay all you need now is warm clothes and rest."

They came to the car; one of the officials opened the door for him, gesturing for him to enter.

But Alfred paused, clutching at the blanket, looking toward the dock and the calm purple-grey sea beyond it.

"What's the matter?" Blakely asked, opening the driver's door.

Alfred's mouth tasted overwhelmingly of salt and his throat was dry as he spoke:

"Where's Arthur?"

* * *

_Lusitania _had 48 lifeboats - more than enough for everyone aboard - but her severe list and the speed of her sinking meant that only six of them, all on the starboard side, were actually lowered successfully (to varying degrees of success once they actually hit the water). Many of the lifeboats overturned, slid off the ship or were crushed as _Lusitania _rolled onto her side; most of her collapsibles simply floated off.

It sounds extrordinary, given that _Titanic _sank in iceberg-infested waters whilst _Lusitania _sank just eleven miles from the coast of Ireland, but a great many of _Lusitania_'s victims died in the same way as _Titanic_'s: hypothermia induced by hours spent in frigid North Atlantic waters.

Alfred and Arthur were severely channeling Jack and Rose again in this chapter, what with Arthur telling Alfred to get into a lifeboat and Alfred not wanting to go without him... I think it's a natural reaction, really, when parting with a loved one in such a way.

THIS FIC IS NOT OVER, BTW. Unlike _1912_, the aftermath of the sinking is just as important, if not more so. I predict/hope that this will have maybe three more chapters to tie everything off.

Given that we're on the 9th by now, I'm hoping to have another one up tonight, we'll see how I go given that I was up until 4am writing this one last night. ...Though I probably could have done it quicker had I not been watching _Titanic_ at the same time. STOP DISTRACTING ME, JACK AND ROSE.


	9. Saturday May 8th, 1915

OMG, I am very behind at this point! But I don't think it matters as much anymore, not with the sinking over and done with.

Thank you to: **Krytical, Lamashtar Two, Chairisse, Xenia van Hausen, gracezilla, Spica-san Dee, Guest, IcarusWing, Guest, thinkingthatifpeoplewererain, Iggy Butt, Guest, Juni, Guest **and** i Mel-chan i**!

Saturday 8th May, 1915

Sheer exhaustion had claimed Alfred the night before; for, when he closed his eyes, all he saw was the _Lusitania _screaming and pouring smoke as she keeled onto her side and was swallowed. He hadn't been expecting sleep - and, when he woke early on the morning of the 8th, it was with aching joints, a crick in his neck and a dry mouth. He felt as though he hadn't rested at all.

He bathed, scrubbing the the salt from his skin, and took breakfast alone; milky coffee and porridge that he barely tasted. An official brought him the morning's newspapers, all emblazoned with screaming headlines like _LUSITANIA TORPEDOED _and _CUNARD LINER SUNK _above photographs of the ship and gory, inaccurate illustrations of the sinking. All hazarded guesses at the number of lives lost, well over a thousand each. Alfred turned them all over so that he wouldn't have to look at them.

He had heard nothing of Arthur. Before bed, exhausted and shaken up as he had been, he had give express instructions to wake him if anything of Arthur was communicated. Alfred's rescue boat had been one of the first to get in, after all, and he'd been whisked off within a matter of minutes by his panicked officials.

His sleep had gone undisturbed, however, and he ate breakfast none the wiser. He hadn't seen Arthur since the botched lowering of the lifeboat; had he even gotten off the _Lusitania _before she'd gone down?

Blakely came in, standing at the tableside. He was a man in his early forties, dark-haired, with a brisk and official demeanor; Alfred pinpointed his accent as New Hampshire.

"Frost is down at the dock," Blakely said. "He'd like for you to join him, if you will."

Alfred was quiet for a moment, fidgeting with the corner of one of the newspapers. Blakely watched him.

"You really ought to," he went on. "Even for an hour or so."

"I-I will." Alfred rubbed at his forehead and got up. "Is he expecting me now?"

"As soon as you're able." Blakely went for the door again. "I'll have the car brought around."

"Thank you." Alfred looked up at Blakely as he started through the door. "Mr Blakely!"

Blakely looked back.

"Yes?"

"Has... has there been _any _word of Arthur?" Alfred asked, his heart pounding. "Anything at all?"

"No." Blakely shook his head. "It doesn't seem as though he was picked up by a lifeboat or a rescue vessel."

"O-oh." Alfred hadn't been expecting that; did this truly mean that...?

Had Arthur been dragged down with the _Lusitania_?

It didn't bear thinking about, that he'd been condemned to an endless loop of drowning and reviving, trapped inside the sunken liner. Alfred put the horrific image out of his head with sheer determination, hurrying to get his coat and meet the car at the front.

The drive through Queenstown was a silent one, Alfred miserably in the back with his forehead pressed to the cool window. The streets were busy, filled with people with tongues aflutter, no doubt, about the previous day's disaster; they were full of billboards, too, flogging newspapers off the back of the tragedy. He spotted a few survivors amongst the crowds, wandering sightless, dazed, like ghosts in the same clothes they had been rescued in. It was as though they couldn't quite believe what had happened.

They pulled up at the dockside to the sound of the waves hitting the shore and the screech of circling seagulls. Wesley Frost, the American Consul, came to the car to meet them, grasping Alfred's hand as he stepped out.

"Mr Jones," he said, shaking forcefully with him, "I'm so glad to see you safe. You got off the ship in a timely manner, I presume?"

"The lifeboat I was in overturned," Alfred replied, "but I was pulled into another not long after she went down."

Frost nodded; his face was grim.

"It's been grave news otherwise, I'm afraid," he said. "We've been pulling bodies out all night. I regret to say that a great number have been identified as Americans."

Alfred nodded; he wasn't surprised, given the chaos.

"How many so far?"

"About five hundred bodies so far; with sixty-one Americans." Frost shook his head despairingly. "I expect there will be plenty more. I've had preliminary survivor lists and there are a lot more passengers to find. We haven't found Vanderbilt yet."

"Who?" Alfred asked dazedly.

"Alfred Vanderbilt," Frost repeated. "Millionaire socialite and sportsman. Nice man, for all his money."

"O-oh. Yes, of course." Alfred shook his head, feeling stupid. "Alfred Gwynne Vanderbilt - of New York."

"That's him. We're offering a thousand pound reward for his body."

"You think he's dead?"

Frost looked at him.

"At this point, we're looking for bodies," he said. "Nobody could survive in that water for more than a few hours - besides which, the word is that Vanderbilt couldn't swim."

Alfred looked up at the clear sky, watching a few seagulls dive at each other. He let out a breath.

"Shall I help?" he asked softly.

"If you're up to it." There wasn't much condescension in Frost's voice; he looked at Alfred very sincerely. "I will, of course, understand if you'd rather not."

"No, it's... it's the least I can do." Alfred hitched up his slipping glasses; they didn't sit correctly, not like the ones he'd lost.

Frost nodded.

"Very well." He beckoned. "I hope you've got a strong stomach."

"I've been in many wars, sir," Alfred said pointedly.

"Yes," Frost sighed, "but this isn't _our _war, is it?"

* * *

Alfred had just finished draping the last of the thin, cheaply-manufactured Stars and Stripes over the coffins of confirmed Americans when the trawler pulled in. He straightened, watching Frost greet the Irish crew as they stepped down onto the dock.

"We found seventeen, sir," one of the fishermen said tiredly. "Couldn't tell you what nationality they are, though."

"No, no, that's our job," Frost replied; he looked at Alfred as he approached. "Seventeen more."

"There's another one coming," the fisherman added. "They were still pulling some in when we left."

Frost nodded and stepped aboard, Alfred following - taking a deep breath to brace himself for what he might find. The trawler's captain accompanied them, too, telling them that many of the bodies had likely washed away in southerly tides, for they had been greatly scattered.

Alfred helped Frost and the captain to pull back the tarpaulin, uncovering a neat line of soaked-through bodies: men, women, children, clear by their clothing that they were of all class, all age. _Titanic _had favoured the rich and the female and the young; _Lusitania _had spared no-one.

"Recognise anyone?" Frost asked, glancing at Alfred.

Alfred looked over them all quickly, shuddering. Arthur was not among them.

"No, sir," he said quietly.

Frost nodded and crouched down, starting to go through the pockets of the dead man nearest to him. He took out a sodden wallet, pawing through it for some form of identification. Alfred felt rather ill watching him do it.

"Nothing." Frost put the wallet back in the dead man's coat and rifled inside his waistcoat pocket, finding a pocket watch, which he turned over. "No inscription, either." He frowned. "I'd say he's Second Class by the clothing and the wallet, however - and this watch is made in London." He sighed. "I'll just have to mark him down as unidentified for now." He took from his coat pocket a small stack of printed numbers, peeling one loose and placing it on the man's chest; then he made a small note in a notebook and moved on to a drowned woman, the next in the line.

"Ex-excuse me." Alfred stumbled away. "I think I need to sit down."

Frost didn't answer, only waved him away, engrossed in his work.

Alfred clambered shakily down the steps and back onto the dock, breathing heavily. No, he wasn't ready for it; he wasn't ready to watch Wesley Frost deal with the dead like pieces of meat, inanimate things to be numbered and processed as quickly as possible.

Of course, it was the only way to do it, he knew; and he'd dug graves for soldiers in the Revolutionary War and the Civil War, unidentified men with nameless markers. It was easier to be distant, to get the job done.

But having watched _Lusitania _go down in so few minutes, having been in the water surrounded by screaming and thrashing passengers, having listened to the waters grow quiet...

No, he couldn't. Americans or not, he just couldn't.

He desperately wanted Arthur, who had wrapped his arms around him when they'd read of the final death toll inthe newspapers following the _Titanic _disaster. It hadn't been much comfort, it was true, but at least he'd had _him_.

He sat on the edge of the dock, legs swinging several feet above the grey water, and dragged nervously on a cigarette, his hand shaking. Further down, the shore was awash with pieces of the _Lusitania_'s wreckage: white wood from shattered lifeboats, bits of rope, broken deck chairs, torn lifebelts.

These were suvivors, having escaped the wreck; clinging to the sand like ghosts.

* * *

"Arthur!"

The beach was dark; and the sky, too, and the sea-

Which was strange, he thought, because the _Lusitania _had sunk in broad daylight.

He had a lifebelt on, tied tightly around his waist, and after a long moment, hearing no answer but the rushing of the waves, he climbed carefully from the dock, lowering himself into the water. The water was so shallow as for him to be able to walk, the lifebelt lifting his feet from the silt.

The water didn't feel cold, though he knew it must be. When he was some way out, he looked back towards the dock to see how far it was, finding that he could no longer see it. He was completely alone in the sea, the black waters stretching out on all sides quite as far as he could see.

"_Arthur_!" he called again, growing desperate. "Where are you?!"

His feet were no longer touching the bottom; he trod water, the lifebelt doing most of the work. The sea was completely empty, no wreckage, no bodies, no lifeboats, nothing at all.

Far away there was a ripple. He began to paddle towards it, determined; and stopped, recoiling, only when it made itself apparent as the stern of a great ship being vomited back up from the deep. She had the rounded back rail of _Titanic _and the open decking of _Lusitania_, bathed in a green light, ghoulish as she calmly remerged, sinking in reverse. The smoke came with her; and the monstrous groaning and creaking of twisting metal, her wails filling the silent sky. First one funnel emerged, then two, then three; and then he could see all four, black spikes against the greenish sky as she hung out of the water at an impossible angle, twisted in the middle as though she might once have been in two pieces, a nightmarish black shape like a hole in the sky-

"Alfred!"

He was shaken roughly, awakening with a start; his skin prickled with a cold sweat and the sheets were twisted around his legs. Blakely and another aide were at his bedside, Blakely with one hand clasped to his shoulder.

"Good god," Blakely said breathlessly, "you were shouting in your sleep. I could hear you all the way down the hall!"

"S-sorry." Alfred sat up, shaking. "I had a nightmare, that's all."

Blakely nodded.

"Can I bring you anything?"

"No, that's..." Alfred swallowed, looking at the sheets. "That's alright. I'm fine."

Blakely took his hand back.

"If you're sure," he said, though he sounded dubious. He straightened up. "I'll head back to bed, then."

"Yeah." Alfred looked at him. "Sorry to have woken you. I'm alright."

"Very well." Blakely nodded to him, ushering the other man to the door. "Goodnight."

He closed the door behind him. Alfred sat perfectly still for a moment, looking at the lock, trying to gather himself together. He was so terrified that he could barely breathe.

Even now, his first instinct was to reach for Arthur - who, of course, was not there. Who knew where he was. There was no trace of him whatsoever, nobody seemed to know a thing, which only made Alfred fall deeper still into despair, certain that he'd been pulled under with the ship.

He didn't know what to do with this thought. It drove him to absolute distraction, made him want to pace up and down until his feet were raw, made him want to throw himself at things, made him want to bang his head against the wall, made him want to clutch and claw at his own skin, grind his teeth, press his hands to his head and _scream _bloody murder.

He would be glad to live with the nightmares if only Arthur was there, safe and warm in bed, when he woke up.

He leaned against the headboard, clutching at the sheets, twisting them tightly in his fingers. He was strong and they ripped, of course, when he stressed too hard.

His hands would not stop shaking.

* * *

**Wesley Frost **was a real person, the American Consul in Ireland, and was very involved in the bringing in/identification of bodies, particularly Americans. He offered one pound per body and one thousand pounds for **Alfred Vanderbilt**, who was never found. Vanderbilt, who couldn't swim, was last seen on deck giving his lifebelt to a woman with a baby.

Blakely was not a real person, though. XD

Where is Arthur? It is a mystery. o.O

The next chapter will encompass both the 9th and 10th May; and possibly even the 11th.


	10. Sunday May 9th-10th, 1915

Ughhhhhh, I am SO BEHIND. Hopefully I can at least get all of this story up before May is over! (Although before London Expo is another story entirely... T.T)

Thanks to: **Iggy Butt, Lamashatr Two, Guest, IcarusWing, Juni, Jay1892, i Mel-chan i, Awkward Octopi, Spica-san Dee **and **gjlkgjlk**!

Today's chapter is **two **dates in one!

Sunday 9th May, 1915

The car was waiting for him when he came out of church; the service had been held in remembrance of the _Lusitania_'s sinking, with prayers offered for the victims both lost and found. Alfred had found a little bit of solace in it, to be surrounded by those who had been affected by the disaster - rather than cold-mouthed politicians who seemed to be brushing it off as simply unfortunate.

"There's someone to see you, Mr Jones," Blakely said, nodding to him as he opened the door.

"Where? At the Embassy?" Alfred paused, one foot in the car.

Blakely nodded; Alfred seized his wrist.

"Is it about Arthur?!" he asked, his stomach twisting.

"I couldn't say for certain, sir."

Alfred thought Blakely was being somewhat evasive, however; and he simply nodded and got in, shutting the door behind him. He spent the ride back to the American Embassy in tense silence, fidgeting with his folded Order of Service, which had a grainy photograph of the _Lusitania _printed on the front.

He scrambled from the car as it was still moving, pulling into the drive, and he ignored Blakely's shout as he righted himself and crunched across the gravel to the old house. He let himself in and was frantically checking every room in the hall when Blakely appeared behind him, panting.

"I had to abandon the damn car in the drive," Blakely gasped, grabbing Alfred by the back of his collar. "He's in the drawing room." He shook Alfred a bit when he tried to twist free. "And calm _down_, for heaven's sake."

"But it's about Arthur!" Alfred pulled away, stumbling down the hall to the drawing room. "I know it is!"

He all but fell into the drawing room, Blakely at his heels. The visitor, a portly man with grey hair and a handsome birch cane, stood up on his rumpled arrival, giving a small bow.

"Mr Jones," he said graciously; his accent was crisp and English. "I have been waiting, sir."

"I-is it about Arthur?!" Alfred ran to him, taking his hand. "Please, _anything_!"

The man looked taken aback; Blakely intervened, pulling Alfred away and forcing him into one of the plush armchairs, motioning for the visitor to do the same.

"Mr Campbell, my apologies." Blakely glared at Alfred. "He's a little bit excitable."

"That is understandable, given his ordeal," Campbell replied, propping his cane against his chair. He looked at Alfred. "It is to my understanding that you were put into a lifeboat shortly before the _Lusitania _foundered."

"Yes, sir - though it overturned before it hit the water." Alfred leaned forward in his seat. "B-but Arthur stayed on the ship!" He looked pleadingly at Campbell. "Please tell me you've found him!"

Campbell paused for a moment; he looked a bit uncomfortable.

"The, ah, the thing is, Mr Jones... we haven't been _entirely _forthcoming with you." This he said at length, steepling his fingers together, once, twice.

Alfred frowned.

"...How do you mean?"

"About Major-General Kirkland, that is - or Commodore, as the case may be," Campbell said. "The truth is that he was found on the night of the seventh, just after the last of the rescue vessels came in."

Alfred felt his heart lift in spite of himself, relief sloughing through him.

"You... you found him?" he asked weakly. "You mean... he's _not _stuck in the _Lusitania_, drowning over and over again?!"

Blakely shot him a funny look; but Campbell simply shook his head.

"No, you may rest assured that he is within our care."

"A-and he's alright? He didn't drown?"

"Ah." Again, Campbell seemed discomfited. "That's the thing, I'm afraid. He... he was killed in the sinking."

"So he _did _drown." Alfred shook his head. "But, I mean, that's okay. Well, it's not _okay_, as such, but he'll be fine. He should have revived by now, I'm sure?"

"No, that's not it." Campbell scratched at his cheek. "He isn't in terribly good shape at present, I'm afraid to say. He didn't drown, you see. He was crushed - survivors have said that they witnessed the third funnel collapsing. Does that sound right to you?"

Alfred nodded numbly.

"Well, then, that's what we've concluded; the coroner who examined him said that he was killed instantly by something of a massive weight. Given the testimony, it was probably the funnel. The lifebelt he was wearing kept his body afloat, thankfully." Campbell cleared his throat. "Well, you're funny creatures, you nations; and already his body has repaired itself immensely, though we expect it to be another day or so before he revives. He was very badly mangled when we found him."

Alfred didn't care to think of the mental image - given that he had seen the third funnel collapse and now knew that he had unwittingly been watching the exact instant Arthur had been killed. He shivered.

"Mr Jones?"

Alfred straightened, looking at Campbell.

"I'd like to see him," he said quickly. "Please." This was an afterthought.

"You may," Campbell replied, "but it will involve your travelling to London. His body was sent on immediately and arrived yesterday evening."

"You'll recall that that was the plan anyway, sir," Blakely added. "Your intended destination was London."

Alfred looked between them.

"...This means another ship," he said defeatedly.

"Only a small ferry," Blakely replied swiftly. "Two hours at most."

"I suppose I haven't got much choice," Alfred murmured, standing up. "I can't stay in Ireland forever."

"I'll be travelling back myself," Campbell said. "You can join me."

Alfred nodded wearily.

"And I can see him?" he asked. "As soon as we get to London?"

"If you wish."

"Alright." Alfred nodded; then looked at Campbell piercingly. "There's one thing, though, sir."

Campbell nodded.

"Of course." He looked a little cornered, however, as though he'd been hoping this wouldn't come up.

"You kept me in the dark; a-and I've been so worried about him for two days, thinking he'd been pulled under with _Lusitania _when she went down, thinking that I might never see him again-"

"Oh, Alfred, I think you're being a bit overdramatic," Blakely said coolly.

"Even so!" Alfred looked at Campbell. "If you found him the same day as the sinking, _why _didn't you tell me?"

"With all due respect, sir," Campbell replied, standing himself, "you represent a neutral party - and the sinking of the _Lusitania _was an act of war by Germany against Britain. It was of utmost importance, given that our national representative was killed in the act, that we removed his body and sent it to London to recuperate in complete secrecy. No-one was told until this morning, not even His Majesty. Frankly _you _have only been told because of your close personal relationship with Kirkland. As a nation, sir, it is actually none of your business."

Alfred rolled his eyes.

"I might have known it was to do with the war," he muttered darkly.

"We are a nation at war, Mr Jones," Campbell replied stiffly. "I fear that you shouldn't expect much else from us - not even from Major-General Kirkland himself."

* * *

Monday 10th May, 1915

It was a rough crossing and Alfred had felt rather seasick with it, sprawled on one of the benches below deck feeling sorry for himself; the little ferries hadn't the smoothness of the big liners. They had arrived on the mainland in the evening and driven to London through the night, Alfred half-asleep in the back of the car when they'd finally pulled up at the American Embassy. It was two in the morning and Campbell had bid him goodbye, stifling a yawn, with an invitation to come to Downing Street in the morning.

After a welcome, light meal of soup and bread, Alfred had all but fallen into bed and slept soundly, deep in his relief that Arthur was, at the very least, safe. If he had any nightmares, they did not wake him and, come morning, he did not remember them.

He woke early and dressed well, with access to fresh clothes kept here at the Embassy for his use; he had, of course, lost his belongings on the _Lusitania _and the Embassy in Ireland had scrambled to accomodate him, having not been expecting him.

He was taking breakfast with a few of the early-rising officials when the post came in. Having been here for less than twelve hours, Alfred hadn't been expecting any mail - and was surprised when a letter was placed beside his plate.

"Huh, I must owe somebody money," he muttered, reaching for the communal letter opener and slitting the brown envelope open to allow the contents to flutter out.

It was a telegram transcript, smudged on flimsy paper. The top sheet was minimal and read thus:

_Alfred_

_A speech I'll be giving today, May 10th, to those who have taken the pledge. Given recent events, thought it might interest you. Glad to hear you're alright. Be safe._

_W.W._

This was typical of Wilson, whom Alfred thought was quite one of the most verbose of any of his presidents. Certainly he seemed to like Alfred - which was a plus, as some of his presidents found him to be a neccessary annoyance - and he liked to engage him in more or less everything he was thinking or planning. Alfred was, in fact, usually Wilson's test audience for a speech and so to find the transcript of one, painstakingly sent by telegram from the White House, was wholly unsurprising.

He read through it quickly; it was aimed at immigrants who had decided to pledge to become Americans - and Wilson, of course, was never one to pass up the chance to wax poetic on his particular brand of Americanism, which _even _Alfred thought was a bit fanciful at times. Arthur was of the opinion that Wilson was a misplaced Romantic - if only he'd care to talk about castle ruins and maidens dying young instead of America's divine right, the last of which he didn't give much merit when America's national personification was stacking his dinner rolls.

So this was typical Woodrow Wilson fare, so far, and there was no mention of the _Lusitania_, which Alfred had been expecting. Presently, however, he came upon this:

_The example of America must be a special example. The example of America must be the example not merely of peace because it will not fight, but of peace because peace is the healing and elevating influence of the world and strife is not._

_There is such a thing as a man being too proud to fight. There is such a thing as a nation being so right that it does not need to convince others by force that it is right._

Of course, Wilson was a pacifist. He did not want to involve the United States in the European war - he had made that amply clear - and, until now, Alfred had more or less agreed with him. It was Europe's war, after all, and they, as a nation, were Isolationist-

But the _Lusitania _had been, by and large, neutral shipping; a passenger liner carrying innocents, sunk from under them in a brutal torpedo attack by the Germans. Alfred didn't know if Ludwig had personally had anything to do with it but he wasn't about to forgive it, whether it was their war or not.

But this... was Wilson saying that, in _spite _of the _Lusitania_, he still had no will to fight?

He folded the telegram and shoved it in his pocket; and more or less forgot about it when the time came, at last, to go over to 10 Downing Street. The streets of London were still very much crowded with horse-drawn vehicles and their progress was slow, stop-starting and weaving between milk floats and bread vans. Alfred could barely contain himself by the time they arrived, flinging himself from the car and racing up the steps to pound at the door of Number 10.

The door opened and Alfred was inside before the official could even ask for his name; Campbell was in the hallway, having ventured from one of the rooms at the ruckus.

"I trust you have official business, Mr Jones?" The first man closed the door again, eyeing Alfred coldly.

"I want to see Arthur." Ignoring him, Alfred fixed his eyes on Campbell. "You said I could!"

"I did," Campbell agreed; he waved the first man away. "It's alright, Andrews, I'll deal with him."

Andrews simply shot Alfred an arch look before drifting away; Campbell beckoned, starting up the staircase.

"Come along," he said calmly. "He's up in one of the spare bedrooms."

"Is he awake yet?" Alfred asked, following Campbell up through the winding staircases of the old house, running his fingertips over the coils of rich wallpaper.

"Not yet - he's not even breathing, in fact. But we expect he'll revive soon. His body is in much better condition this morning."

Alfred nodded, swallowing. It was the way of nations to be killed from time to time and then revive - but Alfred, though he knew that Arthur had died before, had never _seen _him lifeless and was not looking forward to it. He took a deep breath when Campbell at last stopped outside a heavy oak door and unlocked it, bracing himself as he stepped over the threshold and into the room.

It wasn't as bad as he'd been expecting; Arthur, who was carefully arranged in the middle of the large window-side bed, looked as though he was asleep, albeit uncannily still. He was completely white aside from the terrible bruising at the left side of his face, with a bluish tinge to his bottom lip.

Alfred ran straight to the bedside, pressing his knuckles to Arthur's cheek; he was cold to the touch.

"Hi, Arty," Alfred said gently, shaking his head at him. "I remember you telling me that you were going to be fine..."

He prodded more forcefully at Arthur's cheek. Standing in the doorway, Campbell cleared his throat.

"Shall I leave you?" he asked politely.

"Please." Alfred looked over his shoulder. "I'll sit with him. I want to be here when he revives."

"As you please, Mr Jones." Campbell gave a nod and stepped neatly from the room, closing the door behind him with a _click_.

So Alfred was left with only Arthur's corpse for company. He went to the desk and fetched the chair, dragging it back to the bedside and plonking himself into it; and, reaching out, he took one of Arthur's hands, frozen and stiff-fingered, into his own.

"Crushed by the goddamn funnel," he mused bitterly, looking up at the ceiling. "You're so stupid."

* * *

Alfred was nibbling at the end of his pen, halfway through composing a reply to Wilson regarding his speech and his stance on the war, when Arthur stirred at long last. Evening was drawing in and Alfred had been at his side all the day, his heart lifting when Arthur began to breathe sometime in the afternoon, the colour coming back into his cheeks.

Leaving his half-written letter at the desk, Alfred came back to the bed, sitting on the edge of it. He didn't get too close - although _how _he wanted to - for fear of crowding Arthur; he would be disorientated, naturally, and didn't need Alfred right in his face.

Arthur opened his eyes; slowly at first, blinking once or twice rather sleepily, and then they snapped open and he sharply sat up in a panic.

"Hey, hey, it's alright!" Alfred reached for him, taking his shoulder. "You're safe."

Arthur looked at him, exhaling deeply. His eyes were bright, his hair wild and sticking up at the back. He looked very confused, staring at Alfred as though he didn't know him. This was typical of nations coming back from death, however brief; they needed a few moments to acclimatise on waking, their memories settling, history falling back into place. Alfred squeezed reassuringly at Arthur's shoulder.

"Here, sit up." He leaned over, hoisting up the pillow and propping it against the headboard, pushing Arthur back against it. "Better?"

"Yes, thank you..." Arthur pressed his fingertips to his forehead. "...ah, America."

"Alfred," Alfred corrected him swiftly. "You always call me Alfred, remember?"

"Oh, of course." Arthur waved his hand vaguely at him. "My mistake. I'm sorry, I'll be alright in a minute..."

"It's fine." Alfred smiled at him. "I'm... I'm just glad you're okay."

"Hmm." Arthur closed his eyes, settling back for a moment; he exhaled deeply through his nose, his brow furrowing as though he was trying desperately to piece himself back together again. "...She sank, then?"

"Of course she did," Alfred said quietly. He almost envied Arthur, who had been spared the spectacle of her demise.

"Did you get off alright? That lifeboat looked a bit suspect to me."

"It overturned." Alfred was tired of repeating this particular piece of information parrot-fashion but Arthur was watching him now, his eyes clouded with concern. "B-but it was fine, I mean, I got pulled into another lifeboat." He paused. "The... uh, the death toll's pretty bad. Well over a thousand killed - and they're still bringing in bodies."

"Are there many Americans?"

Alfred nodded.

"It was hitting one hundred by the time I left Ireland."

Arthur sighed, looking at the ceiling.

"Germany'll have hell to pay for this," he muttered. "...Was it awful?"

"To watch?"

"Yes."

Alfred nodded.

"Horrible." He shuddered.

"Worse than _Titanic_?"

"..._Lusitania _didn't break in half, if that's what you mean."

"No, her angle was much shallower - I expect she just rolled over and sank." Arthur stretched, his shoulders popping. "Too bad I missed the fun."

Alfred shot him an irritated look over his glasses.

"Please tell me you're joking."

"Of course I'm joking. The only reason I missed the bloody foundering was because I got flattened by the blasted funnel."

"Mm." Alfred flopped across him, burying his face against Arthur's chest. "...Did it hurt?"

"I don't know." Arthur put his hand to Alfred's head, rubbing at his hair. "It was... well, I was killed instantly. I'm sure we all were."

"There were others?"

"A few other officers, passengers..." Arthur sighed. "At least it was quick, I suppose."

Alfred was quiet for a long moment, listening to Arthur's heart through his cotton pyjama shirt. He smelt overpoweringly of salt water and smoke, the scent of the sinking still clinging to every inch of him.

"...I thought I'd never see you again," he mumbled after a while. He hid his face. "I thought you'd been dragged down with the _Lusitania _when she sank and you were trapped and-"

"Oh, goodness, what an imagination you have." Arthur patted at his hair; although his voice was distant, wooden, because it had been a real danger and a real possibility; they both knew that.

"I was just worried," Alfred said sulkily. "What the hell's wrong with that?"

"Nothing, nothing, of course." Arthur exhaled. "And I'm glad to see _you _safe, besides."

Alfred huffed, closing his eyes and settling more comfortably against Arthur, feeling him breathe, listening to his pulse. Arthur played absently with his hair, pulling it through his gritty fingers. For the first time in days, Alfred felt his aching body relax properly, buckling under his relief.

Presently, however, he heard Arthur's stomach grumble beneath him; and he propped himself up, looking at Arthur, who seemed surprised by his body's demand.

"You must be starving," Alfred reasoned. "You haven't eaten for days."

"I haven't needed to." Arthur sighed and moved to push back the covers; Alfred stopped him, tucking him back in.

"Hey, no, you stay right where you are. I'll go down to the kitchen and get you something."

"Oh, please don't trouble yourself," Arthur said calmly. "Just something light; tea and a sandwich or maybe a-"

"No, no cakes!" Alfred said crossly, pausing at the door. "I'm getting you something substantial!"

Arthur paused; then shrugged in a way that seemed to say _suit yourself_. Alfred simply shook his head at him and pulled the door, heading back down the winding steps through the house to the kitchen. He passed a few aides and politicians on the stairs, to whom he politely nodded, smiling, and then went wordlessly on his way.

From the cook he procured some leftovers from the evening's meal: a small bowl of rice soup, a few slices of bread, a piece of baked fish and some broken ends of gingerbread. He brought tea, too, of course, and balanced it all the way back up the stairs on a silver tray. He didn't know how much Arthur would want to eat so soon after waking and hadn't brought anything too hearty, thinking it best to err on the side of caution. It wouldn't do to go making Arthur sick.

A few of the politicians, including Campbell, were clustered around Arthur's bed when Alfred got back to the bedroom, swarming him like vultures.

"Hey!" Alfred shouted at them. "Get outta here! He only just woke up." He held up the tray. "He needs to eat something. Can't you interrogate him tomorrow?"

The Prime Minister, Herbert Asquith, rose from the bedside seat that Alfred had earlier occupied.

"Mr Jones, with all due respect," he said crisply, "this is not the time for you to be playing nursemaid. Leave the tray on the table and kindly see yourself out."

Alfred's hands tightened on the tray.

"No," he bit out. "I'm not going anywhere."

Campbell shook his head at him.

"Mr Jones, please, as a neutral nation-"

"Oh, no, please," Arthur interrupted tiredly, apparently seeing Alfred as a lifeline to cling to most determinedly, "I can't stomach any of this tonight, gentlemen. Leave me be. You may pick my poor brains tomorrow; tonight I will endure no company but Alfred's. Please, leave us."

Asquith looked taken aback.

"But Major-General," he began, "we simply _must_-"

"I said _out_!" Arthur flapped his hand impatiently at the lot of them, losing his temper, and they scattered. "You too, Mr Asquith. You have my word that tomorrow you may submit me to the rack, as it were."

Asquith at last lowered his head into a small bow.

"As you wish, Major-General." He shot Alfred a cold look as he left.

Alfred's reply in kind was a smug smile; he kicked the door shut behind Asquith and came, at least, to the bed with the tray.

"I would have gotten rid of them for you," he said, pouting a little.

"I know," Arthur replied, taking the tray from Alfred and setting it on his lap, "but my way was more effective. They're more likely to run for cover at one of _my _temper-tantrums, after all. _I'm _their nation. ...I'm sure the same could be said of you with Wilson?"

"Heh." Alfred rolled his eyes. "Something like that."

"How _is _the old Romantic?" Arthur started on his soup; he ate quickly and hungrily, the bowl close to his chin.

"Romancing me, as usual." Alfred pinched a bit of gingerbread to nibble on. "Or the notion of me, at least - even at a time like this."

"I see." Arthur raised his thick eyebrows. "Well, do invite me to the wedding."

"You're top of the guest list." Alfred crunched up his gingerbread, watching Arthur eat for a moment. "...Good?"

"Brilliant." Arthur smirked at him. "Hunger is the best sauce, as they say."

"That's true," Alfred agreed; because he remembered the Frontier. He reached for the teapot and the cups that had rattled all the way up four flights of stairs. "Tea?"

"Ah, I knew it. I haven't woken up after all." Arthur shot him a grateful smile. "I've simply gone to Heaven."

"Don't say things like that," Alfred said uneasily. He distracted himself by pouring the tea, the steam rising to hang like a gossamer veil between he and Arthur.

"Why not?" Arthur's voice was vague as he swilled his spoon around his soup. "The truth is, Alfred, that I've not got long before I have to head back out to Hell on Earth."

* * *

Once again, **Blakely **and **Campbell **are not real people; however, **Herbert Henry Asquith **and **Woodrow Wilson **are, of course!

The excerpt in the telegram is from a real speech by Wilson, entitled 'Americanism and the Foreign Born'; it was given at a citizen naturalisation ceremony held at the Philadelphia Convention Hall on 10th May, 1915. Whilst it made no specific reference to the _Lusitania_, it is widely conjectured that Wilson's 'too proud to fight' comment was encompassing the event, which had happened just three days earlier and taken 128 American lives.

Incidentally, Wilson's views on the concept/idea of "America" are very interesting! I actually wrote my American Studies dissertation on his WWI rhetoric, which was tied up with his notion that America had a duty to enlighten the world as a "new" and civilised nation, not like those nasty European countries that kept fighting with each other, ewwww... XD

I'm hoping just two chapters more at the most, everybody! Thanks for sticking with me this far!


	11. Tuesday May 11th-12th, 1915

OMFG, I am SO BEHIND it's not even funny. We're no longer even in May! :C

However, there is so little of this fic left, it's just taken me a while to get the time to scrape this chapter together... My apologies! I really hope we'll be done soon!

Thanks to: **Iggy Butt, Spica-san Dee, Icarus Wing, AEngland, Guest, i Mel-chan i, Lamashtar Two, jagaimo-chan, anotheranon** and **Child of the Fay**!

Tuesday 11th May, 1915

"That's all I have so far." Alfred craned his head back against the porcelain tub. "What do you think?"

"Hmm." Arthur was reclining in the bathtub, relaxing after scrubbing away the salt and blood; he sighed deeply, turning his face towards Alfred, who sat cross-legged on the bathmat. "Perhaps add a few more choice expletives."

Alfred pulled a face.

"I don't know how well that would go over with Wilson," he said. "I want him on my _side_, remember."

"Well, I don't know any other way of getting it through to him." Arthur closed his eyes. "Germany attacked a passenger ship carrying neutral American travellers. If _that _doesn't provoke your president, what will?"

Alfred gave a frustrated sigh, tossing his notebook - with his half-composed letter - aside.

"I don't know," he muttered. "Maybe I should just join up without his permission. You reckon I could pass for a Canadian?"

"I don't know that Matthew would want to have you, love."

Alfred snapped his fingers.

"Hey, I got it! Mattie and I are twins, right? We have the same face. So I'll just kidnap him, tie him up somewhere and pretend to be him!"

"I think you might be getting somewhat farfetched." Arthur patted his head fondly.

"It's no more farfetched than trying to convince Wilson to declare war," Alfred groaned. "Old man's _really _against it. I guess I agreed with him first off but now... well, how many _Lusitania_s is it going to take?"

"Do you have a final number yet?"

"Of what?"

Arthur paused.

"...Well, American victims," he said quietly.

"Oh." Alfred unfolded his long legs, stretching them out. "I got a telegram from Wesley Frost this morning. The count's currently at one hundred and thirteen but he says it's probably going to be higher. They still haven't found Vanderbilt, for one thing."

"It's unlikely that they will now," Arthur said flatly. "Don't forget that a great many of the victims will still have been inside the ship when she foundered."

"I wish I _could _forget," Alfred replied bitterly.

Arthur gave him another gentle, affectionate pet to his hair and then put his hands to the side of the bath, pushing himself up. He stepped out, passing Alfred, and went to get his towel from the rack. He was the sort to fiercely guard his privacy at times like these but he had always been comfortable with Alfred, whom he had known since he was very tiny, and didn't seem to mind that Alfred was more or less watching him (albeit somewhat absently) as he dried himself off.

"Are you just going to sit there?" he asked archly, wrapping the towel around his waist; he pushed open the door to the bedroom adjacent and vanished. "It's bad for your neck!" he called from within.

"Ugh, you're such a _nag_," Alfred moaned, getting up; he snatched up his notebook and shuffled to the door. "Don't you get sick of it?"

"What, of nagging you?"

"Yeah." Alfred came to the bed and flopped onto it face-down.

"Of course - you and Francis both." Arthur gave an audible, impatient sigh as he rifled through the wardrobe. "That beardy idiot, between his bright-target uniform and his general apathy towards getting shot in the head, he's a nightmare in the trenches... At least I can rely on Belle."

"You can rely on me, too," Alfred said, turning his face towards him. "When I get there, anyway."

"_Lusitania _really ought to do the trick if you sell the disaster to Wilson properly," Arthur pointed out.

"..._Sell _it?" Bewildered, Alfred propped himself up on his elbows.

"Of course." Arthur shrugged on his shirt, white cotton sliding over half-healed wounds. "War is a business, first and foremost. It creates jobs, it pays wages, it reaps benefits if you're on the winning side-"

"And it wrecks land and kills thousands," Alfred added coolly. "N-not that I'm innocent but-"

"Those things are collateral damage," Arthur said, buttoning his shirt. "Besides, humans die anyway. What difference does it make in the end?"

Alfred frowned, lowering himself back to the bed.

"You're so cold," he murmured unhappily; indeed, Arthur's callous words had left an unpleasant feeling in the pit of his belly.

"Cold?" Arthur snorted. "Perhaps in human terms- but I'm _not _human and neither are you."

"I know." Alfred exhaled. "...B-but even so, you weren't like this when I left you at New York Harbor last July."

"I expect I was, you know - just with no outlet." Arthur looked at him, holding his gaze. "Sometimes, Alfred, I fear that there's still a lot about me that you don't know; but all that leads me to conclude is that the word you're looking for isn't 'cold' at all."

"Oh?" Alfred bristled. "Then what was it?"

"_Old_," Arthur sighed. "I have watched humans for a very long time. I don't pretend to understand them, as such, but I assure you that they haven't changed much in a thousand years. At this point I am quite convinced that they exist only to inflict misery on one another."

"And where does that leave _us_?" Alfred challenged.

"At the mercy of their whims," Arthur replied carelessly. "And bound by duty to invisible borders created by humans. But nations come and go just as humans do - that's something to remember, too. When you think of it like that, what _does _it matter? Humans have slaughtered in each in the names of nations and gods that no longer exist."

He was getting somewhat conversational now; which Alfred didn't much like, given the topic.

"Rome is a fine example," he went on. "In fact, here's something interesting: the _Lusitania _took her name from a Roman province."

"Great," Alfred said, rolling over. "So that's _two Lusitania_s that don't exist anymore - and I expect you don't give a damn about either one of them."

"You're twisting my words," Arthur said impatiently. "Look, all I meant was that you shouldn't take it so much on the chin. _Lusitania _wasn't the first ship to be sunk in this war and I assure you that she won't be the last; to that end, her sinking should be used to our advantage. Business is business. If you can use _Lusitania _to bully Wilson into the war, then do it, by all means. War might be commonplace in the grand scale of things - and pointless in most instances - but this one is particularly nasty and I'd like to get it over with as quickly as possible." He was dressed now and stood at the mirror with a comb, trying to tame his damp hair. "There's simply no point in getting upset about it, is all. We're not human and so we don't pay the human price -I think you'd do yourself a service to remember that. After all, it's happened before and it'll happen again because humans are fucking halfwits who won't rest, it seems, until they've wiped themselves off the face of the earth. They're calling this the Great War, the war to end all wars - but I don't believe that for a moment, do you?"

"No," Alfred agreed icily, "especially not if _you've_ got anything to do with it."

Arthur lowered his comb, glancing at Alfred frustratedly.

"Alfred, for what it's worth, I do feel rotten about this _Lusitania _thing," he said. "I assured you and assured you that she was perfectly safe and then she sank anyway. I could bite my tongue, really I could."

Alfred sighed, closing his eyes.

"It's not your fault," he mumbled grudgingly.

"Well, of course not." Arthur sounded a bit incredulous. "But all the same, it was awfully bad luck - and she'd gotten through the warzone so many times before, you know. She was a speedy little devil." He came to the bed, patting Alfred's shoulder. "Anyway, come along. It won't do to mope up here. Let's go and have some lunch before the afternoon has quite gotten away from us."

Alfred opened his eyes, looking up at him.

"You know, I think it's your insistence that everything is back to normal that makes you seem so callous," he said frostily.

Arthur simply raised his eyebrows.

"This _is _normal, sinking ships, massive body counts and all," he replied, shoving his hands into his pockets. "Welcome to Europe, Mr Jones."

"Forgive me," Alfred snapped tiredly. "It's been a while."

Arthur snorted.

"Indeed," he said. "I can tell."

* * *

He didn't recall the nightmare when he awoke but the sensation was the same; the crawling in his spine, the shortness of breath, the damp prickling on his skin. He did not need memory to tell him he what he had dreamt of.

He drew up his knees and got his breath back, looking around the room; it was getting towards dawn, with a greyish light pervading the blackness and making hulking shapes of the desk and chair. He could hear Arthur asleep next to him, that gentle and familiar in-and-out of breath, the sound that had soothed away his nightmares since he was small.

He flipped on the bedside lamp and got out of bed, shuffling to the jug of water sitting on the desk. Pouring himself a glass, he took a gulp as he sank into the chair; he wasn't really thirsty but it was a small distraction, something to do - as was absently looking down at his half-written letter to Wilson, squinting at it to pick out the odd word. He'd have to finish it tomorrow, he reasoned (although whether he had the balls to actually send it was another matter entirely - Arthur had inserted a few helpful additions that weren't likely to go over too well in the White House).

Still, perhaps bluntness was the only way to get through to Wilson now; Alfred didn't think he could be reasoned with, he was too good with words to be won over in the ways that other men were, and if the _Lusitania _was not reason enough, then what was? As for Alfred himself, he was ready for war, straining at the sidelines more so than ever; he wanted vengeance for the _Lusitania _and he wanted to help Arthur and Francis, who both badly needed the back-up. If _he _was ready, as it were, then perhaps so were his people - and then Wilson would be _forced _to act.

He picked up a pencil and started to write:

_Mr Wilson, I'm afraid to say that I am not, nor will I ever be, too proud to fight. You cannot be fond of Liberty if you will not shed blood for it; and if even neutrality offers us no freedom - for our lost men, women and children on board the _RMS Lusitania _should have been free to make the Atlantic crossing unhindered - then we must be prepared to take up arms. You know of Mssrs Washington, Jefferson, Adams and Franklin only from books and propose their ideas of liberty incorrectly; you surmise that our staying out of Europe's war would be their wish but sir, with respect, this is no longer the post-Revolution world. We now have a stake and a responsibility and I assure you, having known these men, that they would be in the business of protecting our liberty throughout the globe, wherever that fight may take us._

"What on earth are you doing?"

Alfred started, turning towards the bed; Arthur was sitting up, wild-haired, watching him.

"It's half-four in the morning," Arthur went on, yawning as he looked at the tin clock at the bedside.

"The muses took me," Alfred said dryly.

Arthur simply raised his eyebrows.

"If you had a nightmare," he said, "you should have woken me. I don't mind."

"I _said _the muses took me," Alfred repeated defensively.

Arthur patted the mattress.

"Come back to bed, you silly boy. You'll ruin your eyes, writing in that light."

"They're already ruined," Alfred muttered; but he set down the pencil and heaved himself up, going back to the bed. Arthur had his arms outstretched and Alfred clambered aboard and straight into them, settling with a breathy sigh against Arthur's chest.

"There now," Arthur said softly, stroking his hair; he sank back against the headboard, Alfred snuggled against him like a child. "You know I don't mind you waking me, love."

"I was adding to our Wilson letter."

"I told you, send him a severed foot or something." Arthur hummed thoughtfully. "Or a trench rat, if you'd like. Big as bloody dogs, some of them."

"You're fibbing," Alfred mumbled.

"Only a little bit."

Alfred sighed, falling quiet; he listened to Arthur's heart for a long moment, steady beneath his silk pyjama shirt, domestic in its memory. Arthur's thumb rubbed soothingly at the nape of his neck, his motions so drowsy that Alfred knew that he was falling asleep again.

"Arty?" he asked softly.

"Mm?"

"I-I was thinking." Alfred paused. "...You know, about what we were talking about earlier; that we don't pay the human price."

"What about it?"

"Well, I..." Alfred closed his eyes. "...Where do you think the line is?"

"What line?"

"Between nationhood and humanity, of course."

Arthur groaned.

"Alfred, it's _half four _in the sodding morning - don't go getting philosophical on me."

"I'm being serious." Alfred shifted against him. "Because I guess we're meant to be able to distance ourselves from things like this... a-and, well, you seem better at it than me-"

"I'm much older than you, love," Arthur sighed tiredly. "It's just practice."

"What I'm _saying_," Alfred insisted, determined to be heard out, "is that when you consider all the awful things we've been through, something like a goddamn ship sinking... I shouldn't bat an eyelid." He shivered miserably. "And yet... I-I have the most terrible nightmares and I just can't get the image of it out of my head, _Lusitania _and _Titanic _both, and you'd think it's that I'd never seen a man _die _before, you know, I saw some horrific things during the Civil War and the Revolution, even, and yet I just-"

"You're babbling," Arthur interrupted gently.

"Don't you think it's... very _human _of me?" Alfred breathed, his voice very small. "To have nightmares and panic attacks...?"

"You forget," Arthur replied calmly. "We may not be human - but the concepts of nations, countries, these are things which exist _because _of humanity. We are, in many ways, their creations - and so we mirror them in looks, in language, even emotions to some extent - even those that ought to be foreign to our immortal natures, like fear and grief. I think it's fair to say that, to our peril, we copy even their flaws, just as I did some years back. To have fallen into a fit of boredom and despair - and, indeed, to have grown fat in its interim - is so obscenely human that it repulses me, frankly." He shook his head. "Nightmares, I think, are nothing compared to the brink I was on."

"You're so hard on yourself," Alfred muttered.

"With good reason - what a miserable wretch I was."

"I still loved you."

"I know," Arthur said sleepily. "Rather more blindly than you do now, I think."

Alfred opened his eyes again, taken aback.

"What's _that _supposed to mean?"

"You can't pretend you haven't been somewhat wary of me," Arthur sighed. "Not that I blame you. I'm at war, after all, and besides... wariness should _always _exist in the bonds between nations. It's in our natures to be self-serving; you ought never to wear your heart on your sleeve."

"It's not _you _I'm wary of," Alfred replied softly. "It's your government, your army-"

"I said I don't blame you." Arthur yawned. "I actually think it rather sensible of you."

"...I trust you, Arty."

"Oh, don't make me miserable, my love." Arthur exhaled through his nose, patting Alfred's hair. "Will you sleep?"

"Mm." Alfred was quiet for a while, playing with Arthur's hand, his fingertips easing over slender bone and knotted joints. Arthur didn't respond but for a slight curl of his fingers, half-asleep. "...Art?"

"Yes?"

Alfred fell quiet again for a moment, looking up at Arthur, who seemed content to fall asleep again; the bruising to his face was almost gone, just a few brownish-purple stains to his eye socket left behind. He had a natural frown when he slept, making his brow crease, and Alfred pushed up to lean in and kiss the tiny line in his skin.

"Goodness," Arthur sighed at his cheek, "you're affectionate..."

"Yeah." Shimmying down, Alfred pressed his mouth against Arthur's, determined, kissing him until he parted his lips; and Arthur languidly returned it for a moment before suddenly scrunching his brow and pulling away.

"No, love," he muttered. "You don't want this."

"I do." Alfred was annoyed. "I'm sick of you telling me what I want."

"I can't help thinking you're a little bit... vulnerable, as it were."

"You say that but...!" Alfred sat up frustratedly. "We haven't... I mean, at all, you've been like this since New York!"

"Like _what_, exactly?"

"Like you don't want to... to _touch _me or-!"

"Perhaps I'm afraid of tainting you."

"I'd have thought you'd _want _that," Alfred said icily.

"You'd think." Arthur opened one eye. "Don't sulk. I'm just trying to think of you."

"Liar." Alfred flopped against him again. "At best I reckon you just can't be bothered."

"My dear," Arthur sighed, "I suspect you just want to be held - and I can do that well enough clothed."

"I just want..." Alfred exhaled angrily. "I don't know. I just... feel so empty, you know, I-I just want to not have to _think _for five minutes...!"

Arthur opened both eyes, looking up at Alfred curiously.

"And am I a fine distraction?" he asked softly. "One of her victims? You'd make love to Ophelia resurrected?"

"Don't talk like that," Alfred said bitterly. "All moony and poetic. I just want to fuck you. It's been, what, eight months? What's so wrong with that?"

Arthur snorted, settling back.

"Fine," he said. "Do what you want."

Of course, that time on the _Titanic _- the first time in so many years - had been begged on Arthur's part, a distraction of his own, because he had wanted to forget about 1912; and so it was that Alfred didn't really fuck him, no, it was much too gentle for that even though they had nothing but spit. Arthur lay patiently on his back, holding Alfred close, fingers ghosting over his spine, the curve of his back, the swell of his backside, as he fumbled and slithered between his thighs. This was not their domestic flesh-coloured world of hideaways - where they had poured up their days with passion to keep in the heat, to curb the boredom, whole days spent in bed by the feeble fire. Alfred was weak-kneed about it now; his heart wasn't in it, just as Arthur had expected. Still he sat on the edge of the world, Arthur long since gone from his grasp.

"Oh, hush," Arthur whispered, wiping at Alfred's face as he snuffled miserably at his shoulder. "Don't cry, love. I can't bear it."

"Oh, _god_," Alfred sobbed, clutching at him, "I can't bear it either."

* * *

Wednesday 12th May, 1915

The day was bright and warm, the afternoon a languid one with the sun cool and white in the sky. After lunch and a long cigarette in the drawing room of Number 10, they went, at Arthur's suggestion, for a walk through the winding well-kept gardens, crunching over the gravel beneath the dapple of the trees. The air was perfumed with the honeyed scent of sweet-peas and heady musks of roses and hydrangaeas. They were not dressed to ceremony, Arthur in a powder blue waistcoat and grey silk necktie; Alfred in just his shirt and braces, so warm was the day.

It was a kindly distraction; and pleasant enough, Alfred with his arm linked rather covetously through Arthur's. He was parted from him only by a harried-looking official from the American Embassy, who quite insisted that he speak with him alone. Arthur had amusedly waved him away and gone to look at the roses, a personal favourite.

"Look," Alfred groaned, "I know I didn't come back to the Embassy last night - o-or the night before - but I-"

"Mr Page knows that your interests presently lie elsewhere," the official interrupted coolly. "However, he requests a meeting with you tomorrow morning. You will be back at the American Embassy at ten o' clock sharp, Mr Jones."

"Page wants to see me?" Alfred actually breathed a sigh of relief; Walter Page, US Ambassador to Great Britain, was notoriously pro-British as far as the war was concerned. "That's alright, then. I thought it was going to be Wesley Frost with an updated body count..."

"I can get that for you, sir, if you require."

"No, no." Alfred shivered. "That's fine, I... uh, yeah, tell Page I'll be there. Ten o' clock."

"Very good, sir." The official nodded briskly. "I'll have a cab sent over at half past nine. Good day."

He scurried off; and Alfred put his hands in his pockets for a moment, letting out a breath. Up until now, Walter Hines Page had been something of a thorn in his and Wilson's sides regarding the war, since the man seemed determined in the rightness of Britain's cause and made no secret of it. Alfred often suspected that Wilson regretted appointing him ambassador, in fact, and indeed he himself had been getting sick of Page's letters urging US intervention; but now, with his own mind changed, he saw Page as an asset, an ally against Wilson, and wondered why he hadn't considered it before. Neither alone could coerce Wilson, it was true, but perhaps together they could-

"Alfred!" Arthur was calling him; and he beckoned when Alfred looked towards him. "Come here. I want to introduce you to someone."

Hands still in his pockets, Alfred padded over the grass towards him; Arthur was no longer alone, having been joined by another man who looked to be in his late thirties, square-faced and broad.

"Mr Churchill," Arthur said warmly, "I don't think you've ever met Alfred before, have you?"

"No indeed," Churchill said gruffly, putting out his hand towards Alfred, "but it is an honour." He shook with Alfred firmly, smiling at him. "My mother was American, Mr Jones."

"She had great taste, clearly," Alfred replied with a grin; he glanced at Arthur, who rolled his eyes at him.

"Alfred, this is Winston Churchill," he said dryly, "the First Lord of the Admiralty - though I suspect him of having political ambitions."

"Arthur, you _do _make me sound like a scoundrel."

"You _are _a scoundrel."

Alfred was perplexed at this; it was unusual for humans in the know to be on first-name terms with their nation, with the exception of those in the very highest of positions (presidents in Alfred's case, monarchs in Arthur's - for even Asquith, Alfred had noticed, had addressed Arthur by his military rank and not by name). That this Winston Churchill seemed confortable in calling Arthur by his given human name was unusual, to say the least, and seemed to imply a friendship of the sort that was exceedingly rare between nation and citizen. Arthur often talked about being on a first-name-basis with Shakespeare and Drake but this was the first time Alfred had ever witnessed it, with the other two having lived long before Alfred's existence.

He glanced at Arthur, who cleared his throat and looked askance to Churchill.

"Alfred, Mr Churchill here was just telling me that the official inquest into the _Lusitania_'s sinking is due to begin in a few days," he said. "I expect the Board of Trade will want to be involved."

"I should imagine so," Churchill agreed, look to Alfred. "Frost will keep you informed, I'm sure."

Alfred nodded; not that he wanted to hear every last gritty detail of the sinking, it had to be said. He had always been glad of their absence from the _Titanic _inquiry.

Churchill looked at his pocket watch.

"Well, then, I'll be off," he said airily; though he looked meaningfully at Arthur. "I will keep you updated on the Gallipoli Campaign, of course, Arthur."

"I'll be in the War Office tomorrow if you want to come by," Arthur replied. "I'll get the maps out and you can talk me through the thing properly."

Churchill grunted his affirmation and tipped his hat first to Arthur and then to Alfred.

"Good afternoon, gentlemen."

Off he went, ambling over the neat grass; and Arthur looked at Alfred in a slightly world-weary manner, offering him his arm.

"Where were we?"

Alfred simply sighed, linking his arm through again, settling his weight on Arthur's elbow.

"It has a habit of interrupting us," he grumbled. "The war, I mean."

"It tends to be a common trait of any war," Arthur agreed; he reached out to run his fingertips over the firm swell of a rose. "Aren't they just heavenly? I must ask the gardener to cut me a few for my desk."

Alfred raised his eyebrows.

"Your desk at the War Office?"

"Where else?"

"Don't you think that's a bit strange?"

"Fitting, actually, in my opinion." Arthur smirked. "It says a lot about war in general."

"Why?" Alfred rolled his eyes, expecting poetry. "Because that's what war is? Beauty amongst the carnage-"

"Goodness, no," Arthur interrupted. "That it's bloody absurd."

The heat of the day was heightening; and, rather than turn in, they took shade beneath a rowan tree towards the end of the grounds, Arthur settled back against the knot of roots and Alfred sprawled with his head in his lap. He could smell the grass and the dryness of the earth, his eyes closed as Arthur laguidly ran his fingers through his hair. This was how they had spent afternoons during those two years; and many decades before, too, when Alfred had been small and full of questions.

His questions were not about flower names and beetle wings now.

"Do you know what would set this off just nicely?" Arthur murmured. "Cold lemonade and scones with fresh cream and strawberry jam."

"And ice cream," Alfred agreed. "It's a hot day, after all."

"Absolutely - vanilla and chocolate, of course, I know you like them both."

"Ughhh, _stop it_, Arty - you're making my mouth water." Alfred squirmed crossly.

"It was just a thought," Arthur said blithely.

Alfred shifted.

"I don't know how happy I am that you still think about scones and cakes a lot," he admitted.

"Only with longing," Arthur assured him dryly. "You've a fat chance of anything of the sort at the Front."

Alfred was quiet for a moment, exhaling deeply. Arthur raked fondly, gently, at his hair, following his parting like a well-trodden path.

"...Arthur?"

"Mm?"

"I... I've been thinking. Page wants to see me tomorrow morning."

"Walter Page?" Arthur hummed thoughtfully. "I rather like him, as I recall."

"I bet you do," Alfred muttered.

"What about him?"

"Well, he... he's for the war, as you know, and I think he might be an asset to me regarding Wilson but... well, see, there's still the matter of persuading Wilson to engage the whole country in war and I just don't think the old man is going to play ball."

"And...?"

"And, well..." Alfred sat up; Arthur opened his green eyes to look at him curiously. "I've, uh, made my decision. When you go back to the trenches, I'm going to come with you. I'll... I don't know, wear a British uniform, fake the accent-"

"I'd _pay _to see that," Arthur said amusedly.

"Don't you see!" Alfred took Arthur by the shoulders. "Wilson will have to come and get me himself! It'll make him so mad and he'll come stomping over to bring me home and he'll _see _the war and then he'll _have _to act...!"

"I don't know how much stock I'd put in him coming here himself," Arthur said doubtfully.

"He will," Alfred insisted. "He'll be angry enough. I know how to push his buttons by now."

Arthur shook his head at him.

"Foolish boy," he said softly, smiling. "Thank you, my dear."

Alfred shrugged, leaning in, pressing his forehead against Arthur's.

"Maybe Wilson wants to sit on the damned fence, even after the _Lusitania_," he said against Arthur's mouth, "but _I _know whose side I'm on."

* * *

Oh, look, it's everybody's favourite USUK fangirl,** Winston Churchill**! He was indeed the First Lord of the Admiralty during the early years of WWI - a position he was forced to step down from after the distrastrous Galipolli Campaign between 1915-1916. It is widely supposed that Churchill knew of _U-20_'s presence in the same waters as the _Lusitania_; Churchill was also to partly oversee admiralty proceedings into the sinking's inquest and he, alongside First Sea Lord Fisher, tried to pin the blame for the sinking onto _Lusitania_'s captain, William Turner! Fisher even went so far as to call Turner "not a fool but a knave"; however, both he and Churchill we replaced in their positions due to the failure of Galipolli and Turner was found to not be responsible for the sinking.

Soldiers did actually wander around with linked arms many years ago - so Alfred and Arthur doing so in public is not unusual or suspect, particularly.

One chapter and an epilogue to go! Hoepfully they'll be done within the week! Sorry for the delay with this chapter!


	12. Thursday May 13th, 1915

Ah, my apologies for the tardiness of this chapter. We are now WELL over a month behind, ughhh... It wasn't entirely my fault, however - the file for this chapter got corrupted and I had to rewrite the last third of it, which I was NOT happy about, you may be sure... T.T

This is the last actual _chapter_ - dealing with the sinking of the _RMS Lusitania _- with a short epilogue to follow.

Thanks to: **Iggy Butt, Lamashtar Two, foxymaloxy, Spica-san Dee, General Kitty Girl **and **i Mel-chan i**!

Thursday 13th May, 1915

"Mr Jones, your cab is here."

Alfred looked up from his coffee. He and Arthur had just finished breakfast, Arthur having come down in his pyjamas and robe; he was a very neat eater, in fact, but nonetheless harboured a fear of spilling something down himself at meals and had taken the safe route whilst it was still available. He was on his second cigarette of the day, putting it to his lips as he, too, looked up in disinterest.

"Shall I fetch your jacket, sir?" The serving man gestured to the door. "It won't do to be late."

"Yes, thank you." Alfred knocked back the rest of his cool coffee and rose, pushing in his chair.

"The traffic is usually bad in London at the time of the morning," Arthur said, sounding rather pleased with himself, for some reason. "Wouldn't surprise me if you get caught up."

"And why are _you _so smug about it?" Alfred asked witherly.

"Smug?" Arthur shook his head. "Don't misunderstand - this is cheerful morning conversation around here."

Alfred raised his eyebrows.

"Traffic," he said disbelievingly.

"And the weather," Arthur said. He looked at the window. "Looks like it might rain later."

Alfred rolled his eyes.

"An island of lunatics," he muttered. "...I, uh, guess I'll see you later then."

Arthur gave a lazy nod.

"I'm at the War Office all day," he said, "but come over at six or so. I should be done by then and we'll go out to one of the clubs for dinner."

"Sure." Alfred leaned down expectantly.

"What?" Arthur looked at him in puzzlement, taking in another drag of smoke.

"_Kiss_," Alfred demanded. "Of course, stupid."

"Of course." Arthur exhaled his smoke languidly, grinning fondly at Alfred. "Forgive me - I often forget how much of a sap you are."

Alfred rolled his eyes.

"I could just take it if I wanted," he said.

"I expect you could." Arthur said this carelessly, leaning in to press his mouth to Alfred's; he pushed upwards, forceful and bitter-tasting, and Alfred took his shoulders, holding him, fingers curling into his quilted robe.

He was enjoying it; and frankly not paying too much attention to Arthur's wandering hands, blissfully ignorant of their intentions until he was more or less seized about the waist and pulled into Arthur's lap. He broke the kiss, righting himself, his hands sliding to Arthur's shoulders.

"You're eager," he teased with a grin, "even after all that."

"I don't want you whining about feeling like a neglected housewife again," Arthur replied, taking Alfred's face in his hands, his cigarette dangerously close to his hair-

"Mr _Jones_!" The serving man was back, Alfred's jacket slung over his arm. "The _cab_, sir."

"I-yes, of course, I was just...!" Alfred scrambled out of Arthur's grasp, bumping against the table, sending the china clattering. "I'm coming!"

He glared at Arthur, who gave him an innocent look, taking another nonchalant puff on his cigarette.

"Six o' clock," he said languidly. "Don't forget now."

"As if I would." Alfred stumbled to the door, taking his jacket from the waiter and throwing it on. "See you later." He blew Arthur an obnoxious, over-exaggerated kiss.

Arthur looked appalled.

"Get out of my sight," he said delicately, tapping off his ash.

Alfred smirked at him, peeling himself around the door; light-footed through Number 10 and down the front steps to the purring car. He checked his top pocket for his Wilson letter as they pulled away, finding it safely folded, ready to be shown to Page.

As before, the streets were busy, loud with the honking of car horns and the whinny of impatient horses; a few newspaper boys were still at it, too, trying to be rid of their last few papers. The _Lusitania _was still in the headlines, her ever-increasing body count exploited at every turn.

Arriving back at the American Embassy for the first time in three days, Alfred didn't care to make any idle chit-chat with officials as he made his way up to Page's office; they all knew where he'd been, after all, and how prone he was to vanishing when he felt like it. He expected that he'd been the object of lengthy discussion in his absence.

Walter Hines Page, the American Ambassador, was working at his desk when Alfred all but barged in; he looked up in surprise.

"Mr Jones," he said, putting down his pen, "my apologies, I didn't hear you knock."

Well, they both knew that Alfred hadn't bothered knocking. Page gestured to the seat opposite.

"Won't you sit down?"

Alfred did so, distractedly crossing one leg over the other. He clasped his hands together and bit at his lip.

"I, uh, I'm sorry I haven't been here," he muttered, looking at the wall. "I was just-"

"Please." Page held up his hand. "You are far from a child. You are free to do as you please - and I am aware that you are very close to Kirkland."

He looked a little bit disconcerted, however, and Alfred found himself unable to relax.

"You wanted to see me," he said, "and I have to say... I think we may be of some use to one another, Mr Page."

"Is that so?"

Alfred nodded.

"As you know, I was... on board the _Lusitania _when she sank." He looked at Page very intently. "We _need _to convince Wilson to enter the war. I can't allow the things I saw on board that ship go unpunished."

"Indeed," Page agreed, "I am of the opinion that the _Lusitania_'s brutal sinking can be used to our advantage. You are right, of course, and Wilson is only denying the inevitable."

Alfred gave a sigh of relief, reaching into his pocket.

"I'm glad we see eye-to-eye," he said. "Look, I've been composing this letter to Wilson - Arthur helped a bit but I think I'm going to take his additions out of the final draft, they were mostly obscene-"

"Ah." Page clasped his hands together; he looked very troubled. "If I might stop you there, Mr Jones. The thing is... that while I'm all for the United States joining the war on the side of the Allied Powers, yesterday I received some information from Washington. You see, back home the newspapers are asking different questions about the _Lusitania_; over here, where Germany is established as the enemy, it's all about the scale of the tragedy, the amount of people killed, the wickedness of the Hun. But back home, the question is simply _why_. Why a neutral passenger liner? Why was she targeted in the same manner as a warship?"

Alfred frowned.

"I... I don't understand," he said.

"Then I'll ask you this: to your knowledge, Mr Jones, was the _Lusitania _carrying weapons and ammunition?"

Alfred shook his head.

"No," he said firmly. "Arthur promised me that she wasn't."

"I see." Page looked terribly unhappy. "Well, I'm afraid that I did in fact receive confirmation from Washington yesterday afternoon that the _RMS Lusitania _was loaded with American-made ammunition and weaponry, bound for the Western Front. There are men in New York - dock workers who loaded _Lusitania_'s cargo on the night of April 30th - who have admitted it under questioning; and it's been traced back to the factories."

"Th-that can't be right," Alfred said faintly. "Are you sure? Because Arthur... he _promised _me that she wasn't carrying weapons."

"It's been investigated thoroughly. We have the serial numbers of the weaponry and men who admit to loading it. I'm afraid she _was _carrying weapons, Mr Jones - and Germany knew it. Why else would they attack a passenger liner?"

"B-but Arthur _said_-"

"Well, I'm not surprised that he lied," Page interrupted in a low voice. "At this point I suspect you were used as a shield - one that the Germans saw through."

Alfred fell quiet, twisting his fingers together distractedly. He had simply the most dreadful feeling in the pit of his belly, the blossoming of a truth he might well have suspected but had pushed aside, blinded by his faith in Arthur - despite knowing how unsavoury he could be.

He looked up at Page.

"Do you think it's possible... that Arthur didn't know?" he asked in a small voice.

Page arched his eyebrows.

"I fear you may be grasping at straws, Mr Jones."

"But do you think it's even _slightly_-"

"Yes." Page sounded impatient. "Yes, I suppose it might well be possible that he was as ignorant as you."

Alfred exhaled. He didn't know what to think.

"I-I should talk to him," he said dazedly. "Don't you think...?"

Page looked guardedly at him.

"It won't make any difference now," he said carefully. "Whether Kirkland knew or not, the damage is done."

"I'd feel better if I talked to him," Alfred sighed. "Asked him outright, you know." His eyes fell on the telephone perched on Page's desk. "Can I use your telephone?"

"Of course." Page lifted the receiver from its tall cradle and dialed quickly on the rotary, Alfred watching him intently. "Do you want Number 10 or...?"  
"The War Office." Alfred looked to the clock. "I expect he's over there by now."

Page nodded, silent for a moment.

"Ah, yes," he said crisply to the operator, "the War Office, please. Thank you." He handed the phone across the desk. "It's ringing."

"Thanks." Alfred took the receiver, cold and heavy in his hand, and brought it to his ear. He gnawed at his bottom lip as he listened to the tinny ringing; and he straightened unconciously, clutching the bakelite shell, when he heard the click on the other end.

"This is the War Office." A rigid, military-like voice, it had to be said. "State your business."

"Uh, I... I'm calling from the American Embassy..." He hadn't thought this through; he didn't know quite how to put it now that he was on the spot. "I-I want to talk to Arthur, please."

"Arthur who?" the soldier on the other end asked sharply. "And who is this, to that end?"

Of course - half the male population of Great Britain was named Arthur, it seemed; no doubt there were at least ten Arthurs in the War Office at any given time (and likely a handful of Alfreds, too; both names were popular amongst humans at present).

"I'm Alfred Jones," Alfred said crossly. "And I want to talk to Major-General Kirkland, if it's not too much trouble. Just... just tell him it's Alfred, he'll know who-"

"I'm very sorry, sir," the soldier said unapologetically, "but Major-General Kirkland is currently in a meeting with the First Lord of the Admiralty. He asked that they not be disturbed."

"Well, this is _important_-"

"I'm sorry, sir, but Major-General Kirkland cannot accommodate your call at this time."

"Look, it's about the _Lusit_-" Alfred cut himself off in disbelief as the soldier hung up the phone on him; he looked up at Page, who shrugged at him. "...He wouldn't let me speak to him."

"Mr Jones," Page said uneasily, taking the receiver back, "it was not my intention to upset you - and I see that I have done that. I must apologise."

"No." Alfred kneaded at his forehead. "...I'm glad you told me. You're right about it not making a difference when it comes down to it - the _Lusitania _was sunk regardless. But... but it matters to me, you see, because I don't want Arthur to have _lied _to me, I just-"

"I expect he did, however," Page interrupted candidly. "You cannot blame him for that - he is at war, you are neutral. It is unpleasant but understandable; and we are as much to blame as the British regarding the weapons. They were made in the United States and loaded onto the liner by dock workers in New York. If we are neutral, then we ought not to have endangered our own people by being a part of the operation. The Germans know where our loyalties lie, Mr Jones. That's why the _Lusitania _was targeted."

"He made me a promise," Alfred replied stiffly, rising. "I couldn't expect you to understand, Mr Page; but after the _Titanic_, after those two years... He was so ill, you know, but we got through it together even though it was a struggle... well, I don't mean to babble at you about these things, they're between Arthur and I but I just..." He clenched his fists. "I asked him if _Lusitania _was carrying weapons and he _promised _me that she wasn't. He... he _can't _have lied, not to me."

Page drummed his fingers on the desk.

"But would you have boarded the _Lusitania _if you had known the truth?" he asked. "Having been on the notorious _Titanic_, that is."

"...I need to talk to him." Alfred started across the room. "I'm sorry, Mr Page, I'll come back - but I need to see him-"

"Of course." Page seemed to know that there would be no stopping him and let him go with a wave of his hand.

Alfred stumbled down the steps, bumping shoulders with officials coming the other way; he wasn't surprised to find the cab gone when he got into the street, though disheartened, for he had little knowledge of London's winding thoroughfares. He was determined, however, and set off down the street in the direction they had pulled up, knowing the War Office to be near Downing Street, at the very least.

The day was hot - unpleasantly so at his brisk pace - and he could feel the sweat on his back as he paused at the end of a bustling road. He took off his jacket and slung it over his arm, crossing between horses and cars, and then ducked out of Birdcage Walk into St James' Park. This he knew to be at least somewhere in the right area and he took off at an overambitious sprint which lasted barely more than a minute; until he slowed, pushing his sweaty hair out of his face, passing society ladies out for a stroll in all their best - and more than shocked at his state of undress, for he was in just his shirt and braces. He ignored them with the same determination as he ignored his urge to jump into the fountain.

He and Arthur had taken many walks through this park - the closest to Downing Street - not so long ago, when Victoria had still been queen and Arthur at the height of his glory; Alfred often his guest and bedmate, long before there had been any real substance to their liaisons beyond friendship and drunken attraction. He recalled brisk strolls past the frozen lake in the lazy, quiet days after Christmas, their chatter idle, friendly but insipid, ultimately. They had owed each other nothing then.  
Had that been better? Arthur had probably lied to Alfred every other sentence back then; and Alfred, knowing him to sometimes exaggerate and used to it from his childhood, couldn't have cared less. The boundaries between them as nations - and Alfred's being so very new, after all - had still been in place; and, indeed, Alfred would never have expected to come before Arthur's great empire. There had been a greater sense of priority with that distance and Alfred had known his place - as had Arthur, who had never seemed upset when Alfred abruptly left to attend to trouble with the railroad, for example, or a small scuffle with Antonio. Back then their relationship had really been more befitting of one between two nations.

Those two years, to their peril, had changed everything. Having put Arthur (Arthur, not England) before everything had trained Alfred to expect the same in return; foolish, perhaps, but then again their relationship had not been the distant, semi-professional thing of the Victorian Era. Arthur had been, in his own words, "wretchedly human", and so had their quasi-marriage; fugitives from a human tragedy, they could be nothing but. Page didn't seem to understand, which ironically was the nature of most humans regarding their nations: that when Alfred had fought it out with Arthur over yet another meal and held him tightly and told him that he loved him more than anything, he had meant it with all of his heart. He had grown weak back then, maybe, without wars and hard work on his fledgling land; haunted by nightmares of a human error and comforted by Arthur like a mother to her child. They had seen each other at their most vulnerable. For those same lips that had soothed him then to have lied about the _Lusitania_, for Arthur to have shaken off those two years like water-

That was the thing about nations - about empires. They looked like humans. You couldn't tell.

By now he was lost, sure he had looped back on himself, dizzied in the sweltering heat. He plonked himself down on a bench for a little while, fanning himself, and tried to gather his bearings. He'd have to ask for directions, he supposed, which didn't lend itself much to his indignant thundering over to the War Office to have it out with Arthur. Tramping out into the street, he tracked down a police officer after some hunting and was sent on his way some moments later, his head aswim with rights and lefts and left agains.

By his pocket watch, it was a further twenty minutes before he finally found Whitehall, the War Office's impressive curves crisp and bright on the corner. Relieved, he dashed out into the road without looking, upsetting several horses and interring the wrath of a large car, the driver of which laid on his horn; so that Alfred found himself all but unscathed on the other side of the street, still clutching his jacket, listening to the cacophony of whinnies and bangs of exhausts and the last of the car horn.

"Causing a stir, Mr Jones?"

Alfred blinked, looking to the man on the street beside him; it was Winston Churchill, who politely tipped his hat to him.

"I, uh, yes." Alfred nodded distractedly at him. "You... didn't you have a meeting with Arthur, sir?"

"I just came out of it, in fact." Churchill looked curiously at him. "Did you need to see him?"

"Yes, immediately, I..." Alfred backed away, still nodding, almost stumbling on the first step. "I'm sorry, Mr Churchill, I just... need to talk to Arthur, I-"

"Of course."

Alfred turned, taking the steps two and three at a time until he reached the heavy oak doors; these were shut, of course, though he wasted no time in pounding on them, kicking once, twice, for good measure. He was still slamming relentlessly against the wood when one of the doors opened; he lost his balance and all but fell through, righting himself on the brass handle and looking up at the young officer on the other side.

"I need to speak to Arthur," Alfred said breathlessly.

"Arthur who?"

"Kirkland," Alfred bit out, straightening; he pushed the officer aside and stepped into the building forcefully. "Major-General. Where is he?"

"Do you have an appointment with him, sir?" the officer asked briskly. "I cannot-_sir_!"

Alfred was already away, stalking down the empty hallway; it was cool and spacious, his feet clicking on the stone tiles. The officer chased after him indignantly.

"Excuse me, sir," he said sharply, inserting himself in front of Alfred, "but might I ask who you are and what business you have with Major-General Kirkland? He asked not to be disturbed this afternoon."

"I'm Alfred." Alfred ducked around him.

"That's not very helpful."

"Will you just...?" Alfred looked at him tiredly, frustratedly. "Look, just tell him I need to see him. Tell him it's Alfred. He'll know who you mean."

The officer made no move to do anything of the sort.

"He said _expressly _that he did not want to be disturbed."

"Then I'll find him myself - if I have to knock on every damned door in this building." Alfred started up the staircase. "Or maybe I'll just shout for him, that'll bring him out soon enough-"

"Sir!" With a click, the officer had brought out his pistol, which he aimed squarely between Alfred's shoulder blades. "I cannot allow you to advance a step further!"

"I just need to speak to Arthur!" Alfred burst out frustratedly. "Just for a minute, I need to _ask _him something, I-"

"Sir, you have been most unforthcoming in telling me who you are and your business with Major-General Kirkland!" The officer kept his gun on him. "I cannot allow you to enter these premises without prior permission. We are at war and you could be any number of things, a spy included."

"Do I sound like a German spy to you?" Alfred asked incredulously.

"That's rather the point of a spy - to not sound like a spy." The officer cocked his pistol. "Remain where you are or I will shoot."

"Go ahead." Alfred carried on up the staircase. "See what Arthur does to you if you do."

"Sir, I am warning you...! _Sir_!"

The officer fired into the wall, the bullet bouncing off near Alfred's shoulder with a spiral of plaster and dust; Alfred flung himself against the banister to avoid the recoil, shooting the officer a guarded look as the shouting and the gunshot brought several men of rank scurrying from their offices on the landing above.

"Evans!" A stout general with an impressive moustache leaned over the banister. "What on earth is all the commotion down there?!"

"It's this gentleman, sir!" The young officer, Evans, pointed accusingly at Alfred, who sank defeatedly against the banister. "I told him not to take a step further!"

The general _harrumphed _and glared down at Alfred; he was flanked by several other officers at this point.

"State your business, sir!" he barked down at him. "This is no place for tourists!"

"I want to speak to Arthur!" Alfred said crossly, very frustrated. "Major-General Arthur Kirkland, before you ask! I'm Alfred Jones, representative of the United States of America, and I want to see Arthur _right now_!"

The general seemed unmoved.

"Well, Mr Jones, I'm afraid that-"

"_What _is going on out here?" Arthur himself had appeared at the top of the staircase; he looked very irritated, his thick eyebrows knotted into a scowl.

"Arthur!" Relieved to see him, Alfred scampered up the staircase in defiance of Evans and the general; Arthur, in turn, looked shocked by his presence.

"Alfred, what... what are you doing here?"

"I need to talk to you," Alfred said determinedly. "_Now_."

"Can't it wait?" Arthur groaned. "I'm very b-"

"No," Alfred insisted. "_Now_, Arthur."

Arthur exhaled, sounding exasperated.

"I see." He gestured towards his open office door. "Then please."

"Thank you," Alfred replied stiffly, passing him.

"Major-General...!" Evans had started up the staircase again. "My apologies, sir, I was just-"

"It's nothing to fret about, Evans," Arthur interrupted coolly; he looked up at the gaggle of officers still clustered at the banister above. "You may all go back to your work. I'll handle Mr Jones."

They scattered like school-children, drifting back to their offices as Evans alighted to the landing.

"May I bring you anything, sir?" he asked, finally holstering his gun; he glanced warily at Alfred.

"Some tea," Arthur said tiredly. "Two cups."

Evans nodded and vanished, Alfred watching him from the doorframe of Arthur's office; Arthur turned to him and, seeing him lounging, flapped his hand at him in annoyance.

"Get in there, won't you?" he bit out. "You've made enough of a scene with that entrance."

Alfred scowled, pushing off the doorframe and into the room; Arthur followed, shutting the door behind him. It was stifling in Arthur's small office, even with the window open - which likely accounted for Arthur's state of dress: he was in his khaki officer's uniform, a very unforgiving wool blend, with the sleeves rolled to his elbows and the top button on his shirt popped. Despite these concessions, however, he still seemed suddenly very distant to Alfred, who was growing increasingly wary of him - and his being in uniform didn't help one bit.

He did, in fact, have a vase of Number 10's roses on his desk, bright and velvet.

"Now then, what's all this?" Arthur asked impatiently, looking at Alfred. "Causing a racket as usual - and I must say I can't fathom why you're here to begin with, I distinctly said six o' clock and I _know _you heard me-"

"Arthur-"

"And where _have _you been?" Arthur pressed forward, flapping ineffectively at Alfred's dishevelled hair and slipping braces, one of which was totally off his shoulder. "Look at the bloody state of you, you look like you've been dragged through a hedge backwards!"

"I got lost trying to find my way here," Alfred said impatiently. "Will you please _listen_-"

"Here, wipe your face." Arthur ignored him, pulling out a clean handkerchief from his pocket; this he handed to Alfred somewhat forcefully. "God only knows why you didn't just telephone, I mean if it's that important-"

"I _did _try to tele-"

"And I'm _very _busy," Arthur went on crossly, oblivious. "Do you see that mountain of paperwork on my desk? I have to get through that lot and frankly I haven't the time to entertain you - I'll be all yours after six so I do hope you haven't turned up here expecting that we're going to lunch or-"

"Arthur, shut _up_!" Alfred exploded.

Arthur blinked at him, stunned for a few seconds; until his brow lowered again, his green eyes narrowing.

"Very well," he said stiffly, gesturing to the seat opposite his desk. "If you will insist on being so bullish about it, then let's get on with it." He sank into his own chair and folded his arms. "What can I do for you?"

Alfred took in a breath as he sat down. Before Arthur, he now felt a little bit... nervous; not that he was _afraid _of Arthur, as such, but frankly he hadn't given much thought as to how he was to breach such a sensitive topic. He cleared his throat and saw Arthur give an impatient roll of his eyes.

"The _Lusitania_," Alfred blurted out, determined to keep his attention.

"What about her?"

"I... well, I need to _ask _you something, it's just that..." Alfred looked at Arthur briefly, noting his disdain, before dropping his gaze to the desk. "W-well, frankly I'm hoping you're going to say that you didn't know-"

"Alfred, please, get _on _with it," Arthur snapped; he sounded tired, a little bit defeated, and when Alfred looked at him again, he saw that he had averted his gaze, looking at the wall.

His heart sank.

"Arty," he said quietly, "Page told me that he has indisputable evidence from Washington that the _Lusitania _was carrying weapons. Did... did you know?"

Arthur was quiet for a moment; and his silence, to Alfred, was as good as an admission.

"Yes," he said at length. "Yes, I did know." He looked at Alfred, his expression bland. "I lied to you that morning."

Alfred's shoulders sagged.

"There doesn't seem much point in asking why," he said, looking at the floor.

"I should think that speaks for itself," Arthur sighed, pushing up again; indeed, it was too warm, too close, to really be sitting still and Alfred didn't blame him for pacing.

"There was no chance of you accepting the ticket and boarding the ship had you known of her cargo - not after _Titanic _and certainly not after the Germans put that notice in the newspapers."

"No, you're right," Alfred agreed. "Though I had my suspicions... if you had admitted it, I would have turned you down - and for good goddamn reason."

"The _Lusitania _was, on this occasion, unfortunate," Arthur said briskly. "It was not the first time she had carried weapons to Britain from the United States - in fact, most of the big liners are being used for the same purpose. Doubtless _Mauretania _has picked up her cargo and is headed back across the Atlantic as we speak. Had _Titanic _survived, undoubtedly she too would be serving her purpose."

"And you feel nothing?" Alfred bit out. "No guilt at all for the countless lives you're endangering by using civilian services to do your dirty work?"

"It's safer this way," Arthur replied. "The liners are still neutral shipping - not to mention they are large and very fast. _U-20_'s positioning was extremely lucky - no submarine has ever come within firing distance of _Lusitania _before."

"Well, it's clearly _not _safer because the Germans _know _you're using the liners!" Alfred burst out.

"They run a risk regardless," Arthur said. "As far as public opinion goes, _Lusitania _was not carrying weapons; and so the Germans have committed a war crime by torpedoing her. That besides, submarines coming within firing distance of ships like _Lusitania _is very dangerous for them - more so than a battleship - due to the sheer size and speed of a liner."

"If that's the case," Alfred said coldly, "then why did you need _me _on board _Lusitania_? Why all of a sudden, why-"

"In February, the Germans announced unrestricted submarine warfare in my waters," Arthur snapped. "To do so was to declare _any _vessel - civilian, merchant or military - flying an Allied flag a legitimate target. They followed that up by putting a warning in the bleeding newspapers. The Admiralty had been tracking _U-20_'s movementsfor weeks and her actions suggested that she would attempt to attack any ship passing by Ireland en route to Liverpool. Given that _Lusitania _was one of the few liners to stick to her pre-war route, the likelihood was that_ U-20 _was lying in wait for her on her return from New York."

"Th-then...!" Alfred looked at Arthur in disbelief. "Then why did they let _Lusitania _sail?! Why put weapons on her? Why... god, why not alter her route?!"

"It was a double-bluff," Arthur said flatly. "Due to the wireless systems on board modern ships, undoubtedly _U-20 _was able to keep track of _Lusitania_'s progress well before she entered the war zone. If we had altered her route - the route she has travelled since 1907 - it would have been obvious she was carrying weapons, don't you think? And_ U-20 _would have known and moved position to intercept the new route. But if _Lusitania_'s route remained exactly the same - regardless of the warning in the newspapers - wouldn't it imply that she was truly neutral, carrying nothing but civilian passengers? Why else would she sail so fearlessly into the path of a waiting submarine?"

"And that's why you were so insistent that _I _be on board?" Alfred asked in a low voice. "Extra insurance?"

"Precisely." Arthur didn't meet his gaze. "Would we have been so foolish as to invite the representative of the United States - a neutral nation - on board a ship carrying weapons?"

Alfred let out a breath. He felt rather nauseous.

"So you used me," he said quietly.

"What does it matter?" Arthur said impatiently. "The Germans saw through it anyway."

"But I-"

There was a sudden knock of the office door, sharp, punctuating the stifling air; Arthur, seeming glad of the distraction, went to the door to open it.

"Your tea, sir," Evans said, handing him the tray. "Will there be anything else?"

"No, thank you, Evans," Arthur replied with a curt nod. "That'll be all."

The young officer saluted and _tapped _away; Arthur closed the door with his elbow and brought the tray over to the desk. It seemed, to Alfred, much too hot for tea - though he knew Arthur to drink it in all weather, even in the blistering summer heat of Nebraska and Iowa, and so he said nothing, watching him go through the motions of preparing it. These were very familiar actions, a certain routine, that Alfred had watched for years; for two years in particular, though the tea had been hard to get in some of the places they had lived and rationed, therefore, so weak it was like water, more or less. Arthur's comfort, he suspected, had been more in the motion of it.

It was unsettling, however, to see his back in that khaki wool, the leather of the Sam Browne belt gleaming over his shoulder; when Alfred had watched the exact same ritual in tiny kitchens with rough stone floors, barefoot, Arthur in a worn shirt too big for him even though he'd still been a little overweight then, they had lost all of their belongings on the _Titanic _and had had to take whatever they could get.

He watched Arthur spoon two sugars into one of the gold-rimmed teacups - for him, he knew - and swallowed, clenching his fists on his knees.

"Arthur," he said. It was abrupt, he knew. "...Do you love me?"

Arthur looked over his shoulder at him, blinking.

"I beg your pardon?"

Alfred didn't know if this was a challenge, daring him to repeat himself, or if Arthur was genuinely confused by the question; either way, he did not allow himself to be cowed, straightening in his seat.

"I asked if you loved me," he said again. He held Arthur's gaze as he turned to him.

"Of course I do," Arthur replied; he looked uneasy. "You know that, Alfred - and you oughtn't go _confusing _things-"

"But you used me," Alfred cut in. "As though... I'm nothing more than a pawn-"

"God, I envy how simple-minded you are," Arthur said exasperatedly. "And I don't mean in way that implies stupidity, before you get defensive; I mean that you see everything in black and white, even now." He exhaled. "It _is _enviable."

"How is it _not _black and white that you _used _me?!" Alfred exclaimed angrily, standing up. "Over a hundred of _my _citizens were killed when the _Lusitania _sank-"

"Need I remind you that the majority of the victims were British and Canadian?" Arthur snapped. "You're acting as though we _purposely _had the bloody thing torpedoed!"

"Ha, maybe you did, for all I know!" Alfred spat, approaching him from behind. "You keep going on about how much you need me to join in - maybe this was engineered on purpose to-"

"Oh, don't be so _ridiculous_," Arthur interrupted in disgust; he waved his hand dismissively at Alfred, going back to the tea. "Do you have any idea what you're implying?"

"What, you think I'm too _simple-minded _to grasp it?" Alfred asked dangerously.

"I _said _I didn't mean that you were stupid," Arthur said archly, tapping off the teaspoon in a manner so delicate, so precise, that it annoyed Alfred beyond belief all of a sudden. "...Just that you're still somewhat childish in your outlook."

Alfred seized the tray and dragged it out of Arthur's reach; he had only meant to pull it away but overshot in his sudden fury, sending it crashing off the desk and onto the floor. The cups shattered and the teapot cracked, rolling onto its side amidst a burst of steam as the tea went everywhere.

Arthur, still holding the teaspoon, was too stunned to react for a long moment. Alfred exhaled deeply through his nose, clenching his hot fists, watching him.

"Well," Arthur said at length, tilting his head, "that was _certainly _very adult of you." He put the teaspoon down on the desk and tried to pass Alfred, presumably to start picking up the mess; Alfred blocked him swiftly. "Alfred, get _out _of-"

"Childish?" Alfred asked angrily. "It's childish for me to be upset?"

"Not to be upset," Arthur corrected coldly. "To have expected that I would use you as anything _other _than a pawn. At a time like this, whether I love you or not makes no difference. Do you think the Germans care that we share a bed? Do you think Ludwig will stop because you're neutral? They _don't _care, my dear - and so neither must I."

Alfred was stung, rendered speechless. Arthur pushed past him at last, bending down to pick up the pieces of broken porcelain.

"Well, you clearly don't want a cup of tea, either way," Arthur went on icily, stacking the pieces carefully within each other. "If that's all, then kindly remove yourself from my office before you break anything else."

"No," Alfred said. He could feel tears beginning at the edges of his eyes, hot and stinging, and wiped fiercely at them beneath his glasses; he didn't want Arthur to see them.

"How... _how _can you be like this, Arthur? After everything we've been through together, especially after the _Titanic_-"

"I am a nation at war," Arthur interrupted tiredly, sharply, "and I have my duties." He rose, putting the broken teapot - in four pieces - on the desk. "Why you can't seem to grasp that is beyond me - you didn't have this trouble in 1775."

"Oh, god, don't go bringing that up _again_, Arthur!" Alfred said impatiently.

"Then don't _you _go bringing up those months after _Titanic_!" Arthur burst out. "I was wretched then, Alfred, for heaven's sake, I was completely pathetic - and I know how much I owe you for your kindness and your patience but must you _taunt _me with it?!"

Alfred was hurt by this accusation.

"Wh-I'm not... _taunting _you, you know I would never-!"

"Then stop _bleating _at me about that time we spent together!" Arthur looked at him in utter despair. "Don't you understand?! _It doesn't matter_. As far as the war is concerned, as far as our duties go, what our governments and our people expect from us... our time together is meaningless. We lived like humans, like a married couple, even... but we're _not _those things. Alfred, you will _never _come before my country - and I should never come before yours." He sighed, shaking his head. "That is our tragedy."

"Yes," Alfred said faintly; he stepped back, sinking into the chair again. "...I do see our tragedy..." He watched Arthur gingerly pick up the tray and shake it off, putting it on the desk. "...That after everything, you can still turn around and bite me like a goddamn _snake_-"

"Are you bloody _deaf_?" Arthur sounded at the end of his tether. "Didn't you _hear _what I just said?! That 'everything' is meaningless-"

"But it _isn't_!" Alfred snapped. "It wasn't just about me smacking your hand away from a slice of cake every half hour! What about _me_, Arthur?! What about the nightmares and the-"

"Do you know that I don't dream?" Arthur said this candidly, looking at him very intently.

"Wh... what?" Alfred was derailed.

"I don't dream," Arthur said again. "I never have. I'm not human enough for it. A lot of us - the older nations - don't. You're a bit more... _domesticated_, we'll say."

Alfred gripped at the armrests of the chair.

"I don't see what that has to do with anything," he seethed.

"Oh, you asked me the other night, didn't you?" Arthur folded his arms. "If I thought it made you awfully human to have nightmares? I suppose it does - but then, it would seem that we _all _have little chinks through which the disease gets in. Mine was boredom... and yours, it appears, is sinking ships."

"You _knew _I didn't want to board the _Lusitania_," Alfred said, agonised. "And after all those nights when I'd wake up screaming and you'd comfort me-"

"Yes, you're not hearing me." Arthur scratched at his cheek. "I can't say I understand what a nightmare _is_, you see; just as _you'll _never understand what it was like to be suffocated beneath Edward's reign. We simply did the best we could with each other."

Alfred shook his head at him.

"You _used _me," he said quietly. "As though you don't even-"

"Yes," Arthur huffed. He sounded impatient as he flopped into his chair again. "Yes, I did. I used you. I lied to you. And what's more, old boy..." He kneaded at his forehead, watching Alfred hawkishly. "...I'm not sorry that I did it."

Alfred simply blinked at him. He couldn't speak.

"I'd made my decision, you see." Arthur took out his gold cigarette case and plucked one out, lighting up; and he pushed the case, the lighter atop it, across the desk towards Alfred, leaning back in his chair with a deep, tired breath of smoke. "I'll be frank, love; I wish I hadn't had to lie but I had a duty to do. You wouldn't have boarded the bleeding thing had you known - and I needed you on her. Your presence was meant to protect her."

Alfred took a cigarette despite himself, lighting it with shaking fingers; he drew in a deep lungful, letting it seep throughout him, numbing his frayed nerves.

"I guess Ludwig's not as stupid as you think," he said.

Arthur gave a snort, nodding.

"No, he's a shrewd one," he agreed. "That's the funny thing in all this, you know; despite it all, I still rather like him. My quarrel isn't with _him_, as such." He looked at his cigarette. "But if Victoria's goddamn grandson is going to spend ten years copying my _Dreadnought_, he'd better believe he'll have _me _to reckon with."

"But it was _Lusitania_, Arthur," Alfred mumbled miserably. "Not _Dreadnought_."

"Well, quite." Arthur sighed. "...My beautiful _Dreadnought_. Do you know I still haven't sailed on her?"

"Pity," Alfred said bitterly around his cigarette. "Why can't they put you on a battleship where you _belong _instead... instead of dragging neutral liners and innocent civilians into the mess!"

"Oh, come off it." Arthur got up again, pacing the way he did when he was agitated. "Battleships are fair game, after all. The point of putting the weapons on board the _Lusitania _was to _not _get torpedoed!"

"Well, I still don't see why you had to drag _me _into it!" Alfred burst out angrily. "I was a goddamn nervous wreck - for good reason, as it turned out! - and it didn't do any good anyway-"

"I thought I'd put your neutrality to good use, at least," Arthur snapped. "Seeing as you do so insist on pussyfooting around Wilson."

"_Pussyfooting_?!" Alfred was furious. "Don't be so unfair, Arthur - you know I can't do anything unless Wilson says so, it doesn't matter _how _persuasive I am-"

"Tch, I'm intrigued by the manner of your so-called 'persuasiveness'," Arthur said icily. "You see, my dear, I rather think that while the sentiment is there, the intent is not. Your schemes to join me in the trenches are half-baked at best and I don't put much stock in them, to be honest; and your government has no intention of joining in, that much is clear. Happy enough to sell us munitions, of course - and let's not forget who put the weapons in _Lusitania_'s belly to begin with." He shook his head at Alfred. "But _you_? No, I don't expect much. Your heart's in the right place, Alfred, but for the wrong reason. I don't want you tagging after me because we're bed-mates: I want you to come into the war because you know it's the right thing to do." He exhaled, smoke pluming from his nose. "And, if not because you think it's _right_, then at the very least because you _want _to."

His smile grew ironic, twisted.

"What _fun _you're missing out on," he breathed.

Alfred looked at him in dismay. Certainly it was true that he had seen the cracks in Arthur's carefully-manicured mask before; all nations were known to show their true, base natures from time to time, something that lurked beneath the veneer of humanity. It had been a long time, however, since he had seen Arthur's - half-hoping it had been bred out of him by the domesticity that had almost destroyed him, left behind in the humid heat of India. It had been the late Victorian era, he supposed, when he'd last looked upon it, the spark in the green (like the arsenic wallpaper in the parlour).

So savage was this war, it seemed, that Arthur had unearthed it again in the mud.

"I was watching you sleep yesterday morning," Arthur went on, invited by Alfred's silence. "Just in the quiet, you know, before the day began: and I thought 'My beautiful Alfred, wouldn't I sleep so much better at night knowing that _he_, at least, was safe, far away from the horrors of the war?'." He exhaled, looking at Alfred with disdain. "But now my opinion is quite reversed: I think it would do you some good. You're rather pathetic, when it comes down to it."

"H-how am I _pathetic_?!" Alfred seethed. "Just because I don't live and breathe war the way you do in Europe-"

"The _Lusitania _was_ one ship_, Alfred," Arthur snapped. "One casualty - and, above all, a miscalculation. That is all. When you consider it in those terms, her sinking is no different to the _Titanic_'s. We miscalculated and we lost her. That is all there is to it."

He leaned back against the desk, tapping off his ash; then inhaled again, folding his arms, the roses blushing at his elbow. He looked very intently at Alfred, his jade eyes cold and sharp.

"Well?" The smoke curled out around the word.

Alfred simply stared at him. He was scared, suddenly - not of _Arthur_, as such, but of the fact that he had been raised by this man, had been sleeping with him since 1868, had lived twenty-eight months with barely room to move between them...

...And yet he didn't know him.

Or, rather, he _did _know _Arthur_; his habits, his quirks, what made his thick eyebrows furrow in annoyance or the corners of his thin mouth turn upwards, what made him sigh with content, how he took his tea, how he preferred to lie when he was sleeping, how he knotted his tie-

It was _England _that he didn't know; and there could be no doubt that it was England before him now, just as it had been England as his suitemate on board the _Lusitania_.

Alfred shivered miserably, looking at his cigarette. He said nothing.

"Alfred, if that's all, then please be off with you," Arthur sighed. "I am _very _busy."

This sounded rather agreeable to Alfred, who - having nothing more to say to him - wanted to be away from him as quickly as possible; he rose, stepping towards the desk to stub out his cigarette. He crushed it against the little silver tray, keeping his eyes down, and was shocked when Arthur suddenly grabbed him by the chin, forcing his head up.

"Dinner, six o' clock," Arthur said icily, looking down at him. "Don't you _dare _bring this up again."

Alfred pulled his head free angrily, massaging his jaw where Arthur's thin fingers had jabbed into the bone.

"You're _mad _if you think I'm still having dinner with you," he replied, turning on his heel. "Good day, Major-General."

Arthur snorted behind him.

"Don't be so ridiculous," he said. "You government won't be happy if you sour our relations, not when they're making a killing from selling us weapons."

Alfred stopped briefly, almost to the door; Arthur didn't sound upset in the least that Alfred had refused his invitation - and his only threat was, of course, to do with the war, invested in the bond between them as _nations_, not as...

"Besides," Arthur went on crossly, pushing away from the desk, "I shouldn't have told you anything that I did - and you, frankly, had no business asking, given that you're neutral-"

"I wanted to help you," Alfred said flatly.

"Oh, and I suppose you don't anymore?"

"I don't want to have _anything _to do with you." Alfred started for the door again. "I said good day."

"Alfred!" Arthur lunged after him, seizing his wrist. "Don't be like this, you know I-"

Alfred whirled on him and punched him. He was strong, far stronger than Arthur, and with every inch of his anger behind his fist, it was a brutal effort, straight in the face. Arthur went down, landing in a heap on the carpet; he pushed himself up on one elbow for after a dazed moment, bringing a hand to his nose. It was streaming blood, probably broken, and Arthur dabbed uselessly at it for a second before looking to Alfred. He was clearly shocked.

Alfred was a little stunned himself, so rarely did he lose his temper, but there was no taking it back now.

Besides, _he _wasn't sorry either.

He walked out of the office without another word.

* * *

"Mr Jones?" Page leaned around the door. "You have a telegram."

"From who?" Alfred asked woodenly; he was slouched in an armchair in the parlour of the American Embassy, staring intently at the fire.

"Major-General Kirkland, sir." Page came into the room, the card outstretched. "One of the aides just brought it up to me."

Alfred held out his hand for it; upon receiving it, he turned it over briefly to look at it, glancing at the elaborate border along the top. It was from the War Office and he did indeed pick out 'Kirkland' amongst the text. He didn't read it, giving a flick of his wrist to send it spinning neatly into the fire.

"If he sends any more, don't bring them to me," he sighed. "Just get rid of them. And... if he comes here, I don't want to see him. I don't want any telephone calls or letters or goddamn messages in bottles, alright, Mr Page?" He paused, breathing out. "I told him I didn't want anything more to do with him and I _meant _it."

"Of course." Page paused, clearing his throat. "...However, sir, _my _stance is unchanged. I am still in support of the Allied cause."

"That's fine." Alfred waved his hand at the ambassador. "You're not the one he used."

"What now for you, then, Mr Jones?"

"I'm going to go home," Alfred said, looking up at the ceiling. "It's the only sensible thing to do."

"...You'll have to take a ship, sir."

Alfred looked at him sidelong.

"Naturally," he drawled; he reached for the newspaper folded on the table beside him, shaking it out. It had the usual full list of ships sailing for the following week and their routes. "I've been having a look. I'd like to get out of here as quickly as possible, to be honest - although I'm not so desperate that I'll get on the _Aquitania _in two days' time."

"The _RMS Caronia _is sailing in four days, it would seem," Page said, looking at the listing himself. "She only has two funnels. ...I assume this is about the funnels?"

Alfred smiled weakly at him.

"I don't like ships at all," he confessed. "Not anymore - but I don't fancy _swimming _back to New York so I don't have much choice." He sighed. "If I have to go, then I'd rather take my chances with one I can trust, at least."

He pointed to the name, running his nail beneath it:

_RMS Carpathia_

"She _does _seem the logical choice," Page agreed wearily.

"I'll have to wait a week," Alfred muttered, "but I'd prefer her, really." He looked at Page. "Why don't you all pack up shop and come with me? I don't see what work there is for you here, not with the war-"

"Don't be impertinent, Mr Jones," Page said impatiently. "I am the American Abassador to Great Britain. I am here on behalf of you and Mr Wilson and one day, sir - and soon, I'd wager - you will be glad of my being here."

Alfred shrugged, looking at the fire.

"I don't see why," he said blandly. "It's not _our _war, after all."

* * *

Well then. There you have it. :C

The 'Was the _Lusitania _carrying weapons?' question has been hotly debated since 1915. It has never been officially admitted by the British government that she was but, for a long time, it was supposed that the second explosion that ripped her starboard side open (causing her to roll almost onto her side as she sank) was caused by the torpedo igniting the weapons. This was debunked by **Dr Robert Ballard **- who found the wrecks of the _Titanic _and the _Bismarck_ - when he examined her wreck and found that the weapons (yes, he did actually find them - they were there!) were untouched. He theorised that the second explosion was caused by coal dust unsettled by the first explosion, although another theory is that the cold water hitting the boilers was what caused it.

The weapons she was carrying were identified as 4,200,000 rounds of Remington .303 rifle cartridges, 1250 cases of empty 3-inch (76 mm) fragmentation shell casings and eighteen cases of non-explosive fuses; all of which were listed in her manifest and which passed through US Customs when she left New York.

**Walter Hines Page **was the American Ambassador to Great Britain during WWI, notoriously pro-British at a time when he was supposed to be defending American neutrality; he came under a lot of criticism for that, naturally! XD In the end, he was in fact very instrumental in bringing the US into the war in 1917.

...I'll try to get that epilogue done SOON, omg! T.T


	13. Epilogue: 1917

Yay, it's an epilogue - the long and awaited, haha. Finally, almost two months later, we can lay this story to rest.

Thank you to: **Zeplerfer, Phantasmagoric Kaleidoscope, Tamitan, saketini, Iggy Butt, PrincessSaphire1, Xenia van Hausen, Guest, foxymaloxy, Symphonyk, Lamashtar Two, oblivious fantasizer, Helisse **and **jagaimo-chan**!

Glad you all agreed that Arthur deserved a smack in the mouth. XD

Epilogue

April, 1917

"Well, I think that's just about everything," the American general drawled; he was a Southerner with a low, lazy accent, the sort that tended to put Alfred to sleep. "...Unless you had anything to add, Lieutenant Colonel?"

Alfred, who had been fidgeting with his tie, straightened sharply. All eyes were on him, it seemed, and he glanced about like a cornered rabbit before shaking his head.

"Ah, no, I, uh... think we about covered everything." He patted his hands on his knees. "Here we are, gentlemen, ready to fight."

"In that case," one of the British officers said briskly, "we can bring this meeting to a close. Lieutenant Colonel Jones, a car will take you up to the Front tonight."

Alfred nodded and they all stood, exchanging salutes. The office was a small one and the leaving was undertaken in single file, Alfred hanging towards the back. The truth was, he had no intention of leaving-

Given that Arthur was the only person who had not moved, remaining in his seat by the window. He hadn't said much during the meeting, barely noticing Alfred, who had spent much of his time sneaking furtive glances at him.

Arthur, it was fair to say, was rather worse for wear. He had a bad cough, which he had apologised for and accounted to his trench being gassed the week before; this certainly seemed to have some merit, for his eyesight seemed also to have been badly damaged, with angry blistering around his left eye socket. He also had crutches propped against his chair, although he had already been seated when Alfred and the other Americans had entered the office and so the extent of physical damage was yet unknown.

"You coming, Jones?" the general asked, pausing at the door.

"Uh, I'll hang back a moment," Alfred replied. "I just want to talk to Arthur."

The general nodded and left pulling the door behind him. Swallowing, alone with Arthur for the first time since that May morning in 1915, Alfred turned towards him, tugging his jacket straight. The uniform was brand new and still very stiff with starch, so much so that he fancied he could hear it creaking whenever he moved. He stayed where he was.

Arthur, at length, turned his face towards him; his gaze was a little off, as though he couldn't quite make out where Alfred was.

"Don't just stand there," he sighed; his voice was scratchy from the coughing and he sounded exhausted. "I shan't bite you."

Alfred breathed out, steeling himself, and padded over to him, pulling the chair adjacent before him. He sank into it, Arthur tilting his head towards him - following the sound, it seemed.

"...Are you blind?" Alfred asked softly.

"Not completely," Arthur replied airily. He gestured to the badly-blistered eye, the white of it stained yellow and the green gone pale. "This one's shot but the other's still got a bit of vision. I'll be alright in a few days, I expect. It was a particularly bad mustard gas attack."

Alfred tipped his head back, breathing out through his nose.

"Good to know what awaits me," he sighed.

"Oh, it was _always _awaiting you, love," Arthur said dryly. "Though I must congratulate you for dragging it out quite this long."

Alfred snorted.

"You're lucky I came at all."

"For god's sake, Alfred, we both know this isn't about _me_." Arthur sounded very impatient, coughing a little. "The Germans are getting desperate and they're doing crazier and crazier things. Proposing an alliance with Mexico?!" He actually laughed, though it was wheezy. "Ludwig's completely off his rocker and there's your proof."

"About that..." Alfred twisted his fingers together, glancing towards the window. "...Thanks. I know you had your motives for passing it on but still... it was good of you. Es-especially after I ignored every letter, telegram and Christmas card you've sent since 1915."

"Oh, I expect you'd have found out sooner or later," Arthur replied lazily. "It's just that later wouldn't have benefited me much."

Alfred gave a stiff nod.

"That sounds about right."

Arthur smiled wanly at him.

"...I trust you're _still _angry about the _Lusitania_?"

Alfred bit at his bottom lip, staring intently out of the window. There wasn't much to look at, just dismal grey concrete and barbed wire.

"I am," he sighed at length. "...But I understand why you did it. I've had almost two years to mull it over, after all." He eyed Arthur warily. "I hope that's enough. I can't forgive you for it, Arthur, but I do understand. I... I know this war hasn't been easy on you."

Arthur gave a thoughtful nod.

"That's something, at least." He coughed into his fist. "And somewhat fitting, in the end. It seems that Germany only proposed the alliance with Mexico because they knew that their announcing unrestricted submarine warfare once again would put you ill at ease with them. The _Lusitania _incident might not have brought you lot into the war but I shouldn't imagine it did much for Germany's image in the States."

Alfred shook his head.

"No, there's been talk ever since about taking revenge," he agreed. "Wilson's had a bit of a job convincing everyone that neutrality was the best stance. Maybe it was only one hundred and twenty-eight Americans in the end - less than _Titanic_, even - but that's still one hundred and twenty-eight Americans too many."

"And here you are in the end anyway," Arthur sighed.

"Oh, don't _gloat_," Alfred said disgustedly.

"I'm not gloating." Arthur shrugged. "It was inevitable, I think. You're not one to let an attack like that go, even if your response was... delayed, we'll say."

"You know I never thought that the Central Powers were right," Alfred said, low-voiced. "...It's just that _you're _as bad as them."

"What choice do I have?" Arthur sighed, rubbing at his blistering absently; it was weeping, slick and grimy over his cheek. "I'm not going to lie down in the mud for them, much as they'd like me to, I'm sure." He gave an impatient snort. "And I'm certainly not going to _buy _my way out like Ivan."

"Yeah, that was rotten of him, leaving you in the lurch like that..."

"Well, I suppose he can't let it fester untreated," Arthur said grudgingly; he frowned hard at Alfred, as though trying his utmost to see him clearly. "Besides, we have you now, at least."

Alfred gave him a watery smile.

"Guess you're glad to see me, huh?"

Arthur frowned.

"You have no idea," he sighed, "just _how _glad am I to see you, Alfred - _Lusitania _grudge and all."

Alfred rubbed at the back of his neck, embarrassed by the candidness, the rawness, of this admission. He suddenly felt very guilty for all those burnt letters and cards. God only knew what they had said.

"You're a spoilt brat," Arthur went on calmly, as though intercepting his thoughts, "but I suppose I only have myself to blame for that." He smiled. "And besides, we'll soon work that out of you."

Alfred stood up.

"We should go," he said briskly. "They'll be wondering where we are."

"Or what we're up to." Arthur raised his eyebrows at him. "It was a hardly a secret, you know - and if you _will _insist on disappearing for two years into the half-tamed wilderness with another nation, people are going to talk."

"We've gone two years without even communicating," Alfred said lamely. "O-or, rather, I ignored your every attempt-"

"What's two years to creatures such as us?" Arthur put out his hand. "Would you help me? I don't really need the crutches anymore, to be honest, I was in worse shape last week - our trench was shelled, too, would you believe it?"

"What are you, a magnet?" Alfred took his hand and hoisted him up. "I sure hope _I'm _not in your trench."

"You won't be - you'll have your own trench with other Americans; and hopefully, with a bit of luck, the Germans will see you as a lovely new target and leave off me for five minutes."

"Gee, thanks." Alfred looked at Arthur, who was fumbling a bit beside him. "...Are you sure you're alright?"

"Yes, yes, I'm fine." Arthur took hold of his arm. "Just let me hang onto you to get out of the room, will you?"

This, Alfred suspected, was a bit of a front, for Arthur didn't seem to be able to see very well at all (it was little wonder with that sort of damage); he was careful in escorting him, trying to steer him around the furniture, and it felt like those early years after the Civil War, helping men who bodies had been destroyed in battle, many of whom could no longer walk.

Arthur stumbled a bit against the table and Alfred caught him, righting him again; and he held him close for a moment, putting his face against his shoulder. _His _uniform, by contrast, was well broken in, worn away, and he stank of mud and chemicals, probably the gas and who knew what else they were throwing at each other, gunpower and blood and damp. He smelt of the men, of course, and a nation he may have been - but they were caged in human bodies and that was that.

There was no real escape.

"What's the matter?" Arthur asked softly, stroking Alfred's hair. "Are you crying? There's no need for that."

"I'm sorry," Alfred mumbled, wiping his face, knocking his glasses askew. "I just... you n-needed me and I _ignored _you, I-"

"Sshh." Arthur took his face. "It's alright, love. You're here now."

Alfred looked helplessly at him.

"Aren't you angry?"

"A little bit - but you're angry about the _Lusitania_. It's all even in the end." Arthur shrugged. "Maybe we don't have to forgive each other for everything. We are nations, after all; and we have long memories."

"But I'm afraid," Alfred said miserably. "You're the most powerful nation in the world a-and look what this war's done to you...!" He touched Arthur's cheek, noting that he flinched just a little. "...What hope have _I _got?"

Arthur seemed surprised, pushing Alfred's hand from his face.

"My dear," he said, "you have all the hope in the world."

Alfred looked away.

"Don't be so-"

"I mean it." Arthur took hold of his chin, forcing him to look at him. "You don't see it; you're too young, I fancy, and too naive. But _you _are what we have been waiting for, Francis and Belle and I, shivering in the trenches since 1914. Why? Because with your help,_ we will win_."

Alfred rolled his eyes.

"Ugh, it's just money, it's-"

"Money means nothing. The _Titanic _was the most expensive thing on the planet when she sank. I had everything I could possibly want in the world when I almost destroyed myself."

"That's-"

"I might be half blind," Arthur said gently, putting both hands to Alfred's face, "but do you think I don't know strength when I see it?"

Alfred smiled weakly at him.

"You're getting as bad as Wilson," he teased.

Arthur grinned.

"Well, maybe the Old Romantic _does _talk some sense after all." He pinched Alfred's cheeks. "Though I'll thank you to keep any and all Divine Liberty to yourself."

"Do I have to keep my mouth to myself?" Alfred asked, pulling his head free.

"That is at your discretion, Lieutenant Colonel," Arthur replied primly.

"Good." Alfred leaned down, pressing a kiss to Arthur's mouth; it was quick and dry, perfectly-formed, and he pulled back with a bit of pout. "...I don't want to talk about the _Lusitania _ever again, okay?"

If Arthur had any comment to make regarding this being naive or childish, he kept it to himself; instead he nodded once, dipping his head as though bowing to a king. He took Alfred's arm.

"Let's go, love," he said. "We've a war to win."

"You always put such faith in me," Alfred said softly; feeling lost and led to the slaughter. Arthur was holding on to him very tightly indeed.

"Of course, my dear." Arthur smiled at him. "This is your century, after all."

* * *

The 20th Century, also known as the American Century, of course.

The proposed alliance between Germany and Mexico was detailed in the** Zimmermann Telegram**, wherein Germany - aware that the resurgence of unrestricted submarine warfare would cause unrest in the US, given the _Lusitania _incident - offered Mexico help in reclaiming territories taken by the United States if Mexico sided with Germany. British Intelligence intercepted the telegram and passed it on to Washington, more or less bringing the United States into the war on the side of the Allies.

To answer **Zeplerfer**: Yes, Alfred's beloved _RMS Carpathia _did in fact also sink, torpedoed in 1918 by a German submarine - an unjust end for the rescuer of _Titanic_'s survivors. More chillingly, there is actually a photograph of her sinking.

...I'm not going to write a fic about that. Or about _Britannic _sinking in 1916. Or about Dr Robert Ballard finding _Titanic_'s wreck in 1985 (I expect Alfred would flip the fuck out - admittedly her wreck is fascinatingly creepy, the way her bow is just sitting upright on the seabed... o.O)

Anyway, my point is, I am finished with this universe; although I am glad I revisited it for this story, in some ways I feel that this one was actually the more interesting one, there was certainly a lot more at stake between the boys as nations, at the very least...

Well, anyway, thank you all so very, very much for sticking with me through the long delays in getting these chapters out - and for all your kind comments, too. It's been a pleasure and I hope that everyone enjoyed it...?

...Even if no-one cares about _Lusitania _as much as _Titanic_. Where's James Cameron when you need him?


End file.
